


Atlas Shrugged

by Crash (theyllek)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-09
Updated: 2007-06-09
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15905043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyllek/pseuds/Crash
Summary: It’s weird, how seemingly unconnected things can broad side you, knocking you off the path and leave wandering in the wilderness.





	Atlas Shrugged

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Aniko, Kat, Teoh(Steph), Dee, Toni, Arrietty, T, and Sallye, and anyone else who had a hand in this fic. It’s finally done, and hopefully it’s good.

* * *

  

"I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments." ~Oriah Mountain Dreamer

 

* * *

 

Cold. A weird cold if he was allowed to describe it like that. He knew what cold was, he was from the north where snow and ice in the winter was nothing to get excited about. He’d been cold before but this was new territory. It wasn’t the kind that was remedied by a bed and quilted blankets, or the kind that came with cold showers. This was like nothing else; it was bad.

 He’d done the freezing to death thing before. A couple of years ago after the gate overloaded and sent him and Carter jetting out of the second gate in Antarctica. That wasn’t even as bad as this. At least that time he had the internal bleeding, head injury, fractured leg, and Carter’s survival to keep his mind off the slow hypothermic death.

 Now he had nothing to think about except the flesh eating cold that was consuming him and how he would die in the cold of space and the joy that would be on Apophis’s face when he and Teal’c, showed up in their hermetically sealed butchered death glider. Images of corpses that had been mummified in sealed containers flittered into his mind and he shook his head, sending the images spinning away.  One too many late night crime solving shows for him.

It also made his head hurt, his brain feeling like it was a pinball in his skull.  He hoped that Hammond was going to send aspirin. Or, better yet, Fioricet. Nice little blue pill that would take everything away and leave him blissful ignorance for four hours or so.  

 They had done training in flight school, altitude chambers and masks. He was young then, the day ended and they all went out drinking as a medicinal aid to the headaches they got from the simulated high altitude and slap fest that was supposed to be a simple game of ‘patty cake.’

Jack laughed at the memory. Or maybe it was a giggle. It was hard to tell when you weren’t in full control of your faculties. If it was a giggle, he was glad no one was around to hear to it.  Those had been good days. They were before. Before he was accepted into special operations. Before he had become the man who knew as many ways to kill silently as he knew how to cook an egg. Before he discovered that he could conjure up the devil inside on demand and conceal it just as easy. Before he did damned distasteful things that ultimately made him lose faith.

The problem with dying slowly, was that you had a lot of time to think. Time to look back and re-evaluate those tumultuous decisions in life and ask the dangerous question ‘what if?’ Two simple words and a question mark that could shatter your entire life’s balance and left you standing bereft, in a pile of ill-fitting puzzle pieces.

What if he had let Alar come through from Euronda instead of closing the iris? What if he didn’t order the reactor to be modified to explode? What if he had given Daniel the chance to find another way to solve the problem with the Enkarans? He could go on endlessly, recalling each instance in his career that he had made a call that he didn’t feel qualified to make but had to. His superiors would issue empty platitudes claiming that he made the right choice while his team was rethinking the trust and faith they had instilled in him.

Despite his thick as brick routine, he wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t the uncaring ghoul that he sometimes came off as. Jack was fully aware of the underlying tension coursing through his team. The small looks of disbelief and distrust that were shot his way that gave him a tiny niggling feeling in his gut that he had lost their respect, trust, and faith. It kept him up at night, replaying the missions in a Gamekeeper like fashion that only confirmed that his choice was the one to be made but left him with no sense of comfort or peace.

 He knew what was going to happen and how, even if the people back at the SGC didn’t want to admit it. Jack had done the math, even with Teal’c using less oxygen they still wouldn’t last another twenty-four hours. They were going to die, just like Apophis had decreed, in the cold of space where a dish like revenge was best served. Or, by some miracle they did survive to be rescued, which Jack was failing to figure out as scout ships weren’t that big and the death glider wouldn’t fit into the cargo bay, it wouldn’t be without brain damage.

 Either way, Jack was left with plenty of time to reflect. Teal’c was attempting to prolong their oxygen supply by kell no reeming. The time lag with Earth, and the lack of power for the radio ruled that out as a way to keep his mind from investigating the wrong path of memories. He had tried to sleep, but his head hurt too much. So he was left contemplating while drifting a million miles an hour toward the Ort Cloud.

 

* * *

 

He couldn't sleep. Actually, it was more like he didn't sleep. It wasn't for lack of trying either. Twenty-one hundred would roll around and he'd start to drift off during Sports Center and by the time the nine-thirty commercial breaks would start, he'd give up trying to stay awake and lever himself out of his recliner. He'd lock up the house, brush his teeth, pee, set his alarm, and after peeling socks off his feet, collapse exhausted on to his bed and become one with it.  Under a sheet and two blankets he'd sleep perfectly for an hour, maybe two.

He couldn't figure out what woke him up. It wasn't a nightmare, or a strange dream. Or if it was he didn't remember. The last one he remembered was several weeks go and he was sure was alcohol induced. He couldn't find any other explanation for having a dream involving Siler in a dress, doing gate repairs, and General Hammond wearing a wig that reminded him of Hathor.

It didn't matter what woke him. He was always wide-awake, restless, and something. He wasn't sure how to describe it but it all came together driving him from his bed and leaving him where he was now. Stretched out on the crappy futon that was in his basement den watching the Late Late Show, and hurling unheard insults about the redneck psychologist guest Dr. Phil, and wishing Chris was there to join in.

He shifted slightly trying to get his butt into the hole left by missing support rails; rails that were knocked out not long after he bought the futon all those years ago. Before he even knew Sarah; when he, Kawalsky, and Frank, shared an infinitely gross shit-hole of a bachelor apartment not far off base. Sarah had begged and pleaded with him to leave it there when he moved out. She said that it reeked of sweat, cigarettes, and Guinness and that she would not have it in her house.

She won in the end, it stayed there until Frank moved out when he got married and Kawalsky declared that six hundred and fifty dollars a month was too much to pay for a shit hole. By then the futon had seen so much abuse in the form of drunken, and sober, wrestling matches, fighting, and rough housing, it was held together with zip ties where bolts had been sheered, and duct tape covering up sharp spots, and generous amounts of JB Weld to keep support rails in. It was basically a piece of crap that was still in existence only because it was miraculously comfortable. And, most importantly, because it bothered Daniel.

Some Jewish rapper was performing on TV, and Jack swept a hand across the floor looking for the remote. Finding it, not on the floor but laying next to his thigh, he flipped channels, skipping past the alphabet soup of news stations and infomercial tycoon Billy Mays, to settle on some show where a girl was just snuffed out by a falling toilet seat.

 

* * *

 

Janet winced, and not for the first time either. She was still trying to figure out what had possessed her to come and watch. Definitely not the smartest decision she had ever made. She patched these people up on a weekly basis, the last thing she needed to see was them voluntarily throwing themselves in harms way. The SGC couldn't have intramural basketball or Ultimate Frisbee, as its main attraction. It had to have street hockey.

Street hockey that was being played in a make shift rink, in an asphalt parking lot in eighty-six degree heat with a lovely humidity level of seventy-five. She should have stayed home in her nice, air conditioned house today instead of watching the men and women of the SGC barreling into each other holding sticks and wearing inline skates. The coed teams were fiercely competitive and she cringed thinking of how rough the matches would get if they had a proper rink with full walls.

She winced again, visibly shying away from the melee in front of her. Griff of SG-2 collided with Jenkins and Howell of SG-4 landing in a mess of limbs and multilingual cursing. They helped each other up and got in position for the face-off to start play again. The Colonel dropped the ball and jumped back as the players fought for control and play resumed. He and Ferretti were refereeing this year, both claiming that they were too old to keep up with the youngins.

There were eight minutes left on the play clock and it was still scoreless. Janet didn't think it was possible for them to move any faster, but they did. She put a hand over her eyes, pressing down tightly; trying to stop thinking about the spectacular accident her imagination was playing up for her. There was a smack of ABS plastics followed by a whistle being blown and Janet pressed her hand harder across her eyes.

Slowly, she spread her fingers apart, just enough to allow her a small, oblong view of the rink. The Colonel and Ferretti were discussing something, the two teams waiting eagerly for the call. Done talking, the Colonel turned to face the two teams, using his arms to signal the call that Janet had figured out earlier, was something to do with illegal checking. Howell was escorted to the penalty box and play resumed.

Five minutes left. Janet hoped someone scored. She didn't think she'd be able to make it through any overtime. Sure, she could leave at any time, but for some reason she was compelled to sit there, on top of a picnic table, hiding behind her hands as if she was a teenager watching a horror movie. It was like watching a car wreck; she couldn't not look.

 

* * *

 

Next year they were getting a better location. Indoor and climate controlled with a decent floor. The community center in town had a nice rink that would work, with spiffy Sport Court flooring and proper boards. Way better than warped asphalt and summer heat.

He moved out of the way, easily rolling backwards on his skates as Howell and Penhall went flying by. He missed playing. The action rush in the fast paced game; the feel of the cool air on his hot scalp under his helmet. But he knew that he couldn't play any more, his knee and back couldn't handle it. Not at this level of competitive play.

He watched as Griff passed the puck, err ball, to Coburn as they tried to set up for a goal only for Coburn to be illegally checked by Howell. He raised his left hand to his mouth, giving a sharp blow on the whistle that slid on his first and second fingers. He checked to make sure the score clock stopped and turned to talk with Ferretti who had rolled over. Done talking, he signaled the call, giving Howell a two-minute penalty, and reached down to grab the construction orange ball as Ferretti escorted Howell to the penalty box.

There were five minutes left in the period and he hoped that someone scored. He didn't care who, just someone, he didn't want to have to hang out here any longer than necessary. It was disgustingly hot and he was infinitely glad this was the last match they had planned for the day. Starting at zero seven hundred seemed like a bastard of an idea at first, but now he was glad that they did. He skated over to the spot for the face off, and waited for the players to finish getting drinks and join him.

A quick look around showed that the crowd had thinned considerably, onlookers deciding that watching the last half of the second period wasn't worth suffering the heat. He'd be gone too if he could, he was hot and sweaty and just wanted a cold shower, a bottle of purple Gatorade, and a nap. In any order. The players from both teams arrived for the face off and he took another look around to make sure everyone was ready.

Kenneth and Coburn were in position and he leaned over, pausing to scratch at the irritated skin on the back of his knee. Janet had insisted that he get fitted for a proper brace, and while most of the time it was fairly comfortable, the sweat and constant movement caused the straps to leave the skin red and raw and it burned as salty sweat rolled over it.

Jack opened his eyes. Blinking, trying to bring the cattywhumpus sight in front of him into focus. It was as if he was lying on the bottom of a pool watching the people swimming by above him. Only noisier, people were hollering for someone. Maybe at him, he wasn't sure, it was like watching that Sims game that Cassie was always playing. The characters gibbered, but formed no words, but sometimes thought bubbles would appear above their head. Squinting, he tried to see if the people in front of him had thought bubbles.

Nope, no thought bubbles. Jack wished they'd speak so he could understand them. He was hoping that they would tell him why his face hurt, and why it was so hot. Definitely not the swimming pool or the Sims. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly, mentally crossing his toes that when he opened them everything would be okay.

It worked, somewhat. He could make out the face in front of his. That was easy, he was very familiar with it. It was Janet, Doc, medical wonder extraordinaire! They'd done this particular dance many times before. But, he wasn't in the infirmary, nor had he been off world. He'd been officiating the SGC hockey tournament. Howell had just been given a penalty for illegal checking and they were getting ready to do the face off.  It was a blank after that.

His calves were burning, and the image of his skin melting into a puddle on top of the tarmac jumped into his head and Jack desperately tried to move, to get up. To painfully peel himself off of the ground before he lost more than that thin layer of skin that was mostly dead anyways.

 

* * *

 

It was utterly sad. He could tell what time it was by which judge or court show was on TV. He was ashamed to admit that he watched them. All of the Judge Insert-Name-Here shows, Texas Justice when it used to come on, Divorce Court, and occasionally The People's Court.  But he'd lost interest in The Peoples Court, it just wasn't the same without Judge Wapner. Plus, it came on at the same time as El Amor no Tiene Precio did on channel eleven. Mexican soap operas were much more entertaining than American ones. But there were two more hours, and a visit before it came on TV. Divorce Court meant that it was eleven hundred, and some member of his team would stop by for lunch at exactly eleven forty-five.

Thanks to the little passing out incident at the hockey tournament the other day, Janet had put him on medical leave for two weeks. He'd woke up in the infirmary, huge needle in the crook of his arm, his bottom lip was numb, his face throbbed, and there was one pissed off Janet Frasier standing next to him. She didn't even offer him a drink of water before informing him about proper hydration in the heat, and how people need to eat properly and sleep. 

So here he was, enjoying day four of his fourteen day enforced vacation, sitting in the fatty-boom-ba-latty chair in his basement, watching bad daytime programming, playing catch with a Nerf ball and the opposing wall and, poking his lower lip with the tip of a twenty caliber round to see if it could feel it. He couldn't, he knew that, there were six stitches in his lip, right above the chin where the combination of hockey stick and teeth bit clean through. Doc had told him it might take a while for the feeling to come back but it didn't stop him from poking just above the stitches.

 

* * *

 

Jack shivered. He tried not to but his body wasn't listening to any of his commands. It fit right in with the whole missions-perpetually-going-down-the-sewage-pipe syndrome that afflicted SG-1. SG-1 had sat down and figured it out once, doing the math to come to the conclusion that three out of five missions didn't go as planned. Not that all of those missions ended up with them running hellfire back to the gate with angry natives flinging spears and javelins at them, or Jaffa mysteriously showing up and ruining things. No, sometimes it was as simple as forgetting to do complete checks of their equipment and find out that they didn't bring all of their equipment. Or finding out that the local cuisine didn't quite sit well with them.

This was definitely one of those three out of five missions. Incorrect meteorological data lead to the surprise of the temperature fifteen degrees cooler than expected, a frosty night and equally frosty morning. That would have just been a minor unplanned event had the natives not decided that their worthiness needed to be evaluated.

One of the natives poked him with their cane leaving a smear of cold, wet gooey mud on his flank. Jack shuddered; his whole body moving against his will starting from his neck and moving downward. He wasn't too keen on having his worthiness evaluated. He didn't like it on Earth, and he sure didn't like it here where the method involved being stripped of all clothing while the elders poked and prodded at him in front of everyone.

Not generalized poking either. Callused fingers touched him, ghosting across his skin as they traced the scars that were littered over his torso. Knife wounds, bullet holes, surgical scars, burn marks; each one of them was inspected by each of the elders. It felt like an insect was crawling on his back as they took their turns running their fingers along the long healed whip marks. They were faint now, only noticeable upon and up close visual inspection or by touch.

He shut his eyes, trying to block out what was happening, willing himself to disappear or to wake up and find that this was all just a drug induced vision of his addled brain.

 

* * *

 

Chris swung his truck into Jack's drive way, the end fishtailing a bit on the wet pavement reminding him once again he needed to toss some weight back there. He probably could have taken the turn a bit slower, but he'd forget that next time just as he would forget to toss a sand tube or two in the bed. Turning the ignition off he shot a quick glance at the dashboard clock, fifteen minutes to spare. Hopping out of the vehicle he made his way up the front steps repeatedly flipping his keys around his index finger letting them slap against his palm with a satisfying chink.

Not bothering to knock, he entered the house, calling out his friend's name to announce his presence. He tried to avoid starting visits off by startling people.  He hollered, not getting an answer from his first call. The living room as empty as were the kitchen and dining room. He saw an open jar of Nutella and bread on the counter so he made a slight detour. Pulling out a piece of bread, he did a careful mold inspection. There was a little bit on one corner, he tore it off and tossed it, and the rest of the loaf in the trash.  Smearing on a liberal amount of the creamy mixture, he folded the bread in half and continued his search.

Finding the upstairs was empty; Chris carefully picked his way down the steps to the basement and the den of crappy comfortable furniture. "Jack! You down here?”

Stopping in the den's doorway he took another bite of his food, trying unsuccessfully to keep it from sticking to the roof of his mouth. Jack was down there all right. Slumped down in the lovingly titled fatty-boom-ba-latty chair with his feet on the coffee table. His head was tilted unnaturally off to the side, mouth agape and snoring as some young preppy looking judge with bad hair held a mockery of court on TV.

He studied the TV for a moment, idly wondering if the 'judge' got his hair from the same man as Sam Donaldson did, it had that shine to it that screamed preformed fiberglass. Entering the room Chris scooped up the blue foam ball that was lying inside the doorway, gently lobbing it across the room. It hit its mark, impacting with the side of Jack's face causing the slightly younger man to jolt awake.

The ball came flying back at him and he ducked easily out of the way. Walking around to the futon, he stopped in front of it, dropping down to take a seat completely forgetting the lack of support in the middle. He sank, narrow hips easily allowing him to drop into the place where the rails should be. It was awkward, but he managed to lever himself up. Trying again, he sat closer to the edge, relieved when he didn't sink any lower than expected.

 "You need new furniture." He commented, stuffing the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth.

 There was enough light from the television that Chris could see Jack flip him off as Jack reached for the floor lamp that was seated between the chair and couch. "What are you doing here?"

 "Damn, what the hell happened to you." Chris hissed, seeing the bruising and lip sutures for the first time as the light from the halogen bulb came on. He cringed inside, knowing that the ball would have hurt when it hit, even if it was foam. "I thought you weren't supposed to be offworld for the next two weeks."

"Had an argument with a hockey stick and lost."

"Ah, that's right the hockey tournament was this week." Snatching the remote from the coffee table, Chris started to flip through the channels. "I thought you were refer-ringing this year."

"I was. Caught the blade of a stick during a face off."

Mouthing the word ouch, Chris cringed, touching his own lip and feeling the pain for himself. "You still up for tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight. The reason you asked to not to go offworld." A little unsettled by the blank look he was receiving from Jack, he continued. "You, Me, Denver, The Eagles. Good music, beer, doobies."

"Doobies?"

"Okay, so no doobies this time."

"This time?"

Chris swore that Jack was practicing the raised eyebrow move. Possibly to compete with Teal'c.

"The seventies were a marvelous time."

 

* * *

 

There were people. Everywhere. Bumping into him, shoving him out of their way. The occasional sharp elbow. Hundreds of happy, excited people who were all talking. Chattering on about the show, or shouting out names of the people they came with and names of places to meet.  They were everywhere and they were touching him.

He could feel his heart speeding up, and his breathing going with it. His mind was out of control trying to sort through what was real and what was overactive memories that couldn't stay in their lock box. Jack knew where he was. He knew he was at the football stadium in Denver, and not on P9G-385 with the creepy pale blue-eyed natives. He knew this; the rest of his body just had to get with the program.

Only it wasn't. Each callused push and shove caused his fragile grip to weaken. His surroundings were slowly being replaced with the village on P9G-385. Backlit signs transformed into torches, fellow concert goers were replaced with the elders who examined him like a lab experiment. The cacophony of noise easily sounded like the constant gibbering the natives had kept up as they 'evaluated' him. Even though he knew he wouldn't, he desperately tried to find Chris. They had made plans to meet outside figuring that they would get separated in the exodus. He needed something to ground him in the unfamiliar surroundings.

Face and fingers tingling, Jack tried to keep it together as he flowed with the ebb of people down the exit ramps. Once outside the cooler air broadsided him causing him to shudder as the air wrapped around his calves and touched the sweat on the back of his neck. Effectively jerked back from P9G-385, Jack shakily made his way to "The Broncos" statue where he and Chris had agreed to meet.

"Hey, you okay?" Chris's hand on his shoulder made him jump, his heart thudding painfully as he whirled around to face the other man.

"Fuck, Jepp." Jack wheezed out trying to get a hold on his breathing.

"I'll take that as a no."

"I need a drink."

Chris's arm came around his shoulder and Jack managed not to flinch. "The last thing you need is a drink."

"Screw the Jameson's and go for the poteen."

 

* * *

 

Daniel sighed. He was bored. An extreme rarity when it came to missions. But there was nothing overtly interesting on MXY-372. The city was beautiful, the graceful architecture reminding him of his visits to Seoul and Japan. It was easy to see evolutionary changes in their architecture. Old, open air buildings that had massive wooden pillars supporting the swooping tiled roofs were interspersed with more modern, but no less graceful buildings.

There was just one problem.

Daniel didn't really speak or read Korean.

He knew some greetings, standard set of beginner questions, could count, and a few other phrases, but that was it. Panic had coiled in his stomach when he realized that he was going to be unable to communicate. Memories of previous altercations flittered through his mind when they had first arrived two days ago. Panic that was quashed with astonishment as Jack walked up and greeted the people they had met.

It was the complete roll reversal that was the shock. Daniel knew that Jack spoke other languages. It had come in handy on several missions before, two people being able to translate made his life a bit easier. But, in all of their past missions, there had never been a case where Jack became the sole translator.

Glancing at his watch, he looked over the railing to the city street below. It was almost time for them to head back to the stargate, and Jack and Sam would be coming back soon. They had gone off to look at some mining operation on the far side of the city, while he and Teal'c stayed behind. Daniel didn't mind too much, it had allowed him the chance to take a walk around the city. As much as he was glad that the mission was soon to be over, he was going to miss this place. The place exuded peace and Daniel hoped that he'd have the chance to return; perhaps after getting Jack to teach him some more Korean.

He had been writing in his journal when he heard Jack approach. His voice was off, the usual steadiness gone and replaced with a slight shake as Jack worked to translate between Sam and engineers that they had left with. Translating was hard enough work with simple conversations, go and toss in specialized terms and complex engineering processes and it was even more demanding.

Closing his journal, he stowed it in his pack and turned his attention to his boots. Daniel had learned early in his days on SG-1 that walking long distances without properly laced boots was a bad idea. It didn't take him long to finish and by the time he was standing up, Jack and Sam had finished talking and were walking over.  Sam, a few paces ahead of Jack, was already excitedly talking about what her preliminary testing showed and what they saw at the mine.

Jack, Daniel noticed, was moving a bit slower than usual. Jack had left his usual glued on baseball cap off for the last two days giving Daniel a clear view of the older man's face with still a good twenty feet between them. It was pale, his eyes were pinched and several lines were evident on this forehead. Jack brought his left hand to the bridge of his nose squeezing it before pressing his thumb and index finger into his closed eyes.

Jack's hand dropped and his sight landed on Daniel. "I'm fine." He growled, barely opening his mouth to let his response out as he came to a stop directly in front of Daniel.

'Bullshit' Daniel stopped himself from saying the first thing that came to his mind knowing it would only lead to an ugly scene.

"I didn't say anything." He held Jack's gaze for a few moments before dropping his eyes, fixating for some reason on the thin pink line of fresh scar tissue on his friend's chin. Jack grunted and stepped back, moving over to grab is own pack in preparation for their departure.

"All right, we bid adieu to the good council and then we're out of here. Back in time for custom stir fry Thursday in the mess." Avoiding eye contact with the rest of his team, Jack turned and headed out.

Daniel spared a glance at his other two teammates, seeing the same concern he was feeling echoing back from them.

 

* * *

 

Jack flopped onto his back. He was so sure that he'd sleep the entire night for once. Hell, he'd be happy over four hours, twice as much as he usually got lately.  Extending his right arm, he felt around on the side table for the alarm. The cordless phone toppled as his hand brushed by smacking into the hardwood floor sending the battery cover skittering off somewhere. Finally his fingers hit the familiar plastic alarm cover and he picked it up. The cord was pulled taut as he held the clock in front of him, squinting in a vain effort to get the liquid crystal digits to stop jumping around.

Two A.M. Ugh.

Jack let the clock slip from his grip and it joined its tablemate, the cordless, on the floor. Turning on to his right side, he pulled his knees up to his chest, stuffed his hands under his armpits, and willed himself to fall back asleep. He hated sleeping fully clothed preferring a lone pair of boxers, instead of the socks, flannel pants and sweatshirt he was currently wearing. But he was cold, and sleeping under the covers wasn't an option. The light jersey material clung to his skin, which didn't help him waking up from vivid replays of P9G-385.

Shit. He really needed to stop thinking. It was bad enough the unconscious part of his mind was hell bent on reliving it; the conscious part did not need to join in. As he laid there staring out the bedroom window into the moonless yard, he tried to shut down his over active mind. And it was working. His mind was blank as it could possibly get when his bladder demanded attention. One pesky body part had wrecked all of his carefully executed work. He always new that Oma had bad timing, but this was just cruel, ripping away a man's first chance of more than two hours of sleep because he had to take a piss.

Carefully, he unfurled himself, listening to the well-orchestrated series of pops and cracks that his joints felt compelled to provide. Once on his feet, he moved slowly, heading for the bathroom to take care of things before Oma decided to. Oma was a much more fitting name than Mother Nature. Mother Nature sounded too nice and nurturing, when in reality she was anything but. Oma, sounded more like a deviant crabby lady destine to make everyone’s lives miserable.

Business done, Jack headed back to his bedroom stopping when he reached the doorway. It wasn't going to be worth it, going back to bed. He'd never get back to sleep, and spending the next four hours in constant motion trying to be comfortable wasn't appealing. The whole teaching a pig to sing deal he supposed. Flipping off the offending piece of furniture, he pivoted around and headed for the kitchen. Now that his bladder was empty, his stomach was violently protesting the lack of food it had received lately.

He just couldn't win, fix one thing, piss off something else. Or get caught in indecision over which should take precedence, the annoying foreign body between his toes in his left sock, or the growing itch on this right butt cheek. There was always the multitasking option, which proved to be a viable method in some situations. Using his feet and the braided runner in the hallway, Jack was able to slip his socks off freeing up his hand for the other problem.

Leaving the socks on the hallway floor, he proceeded to the kitchen to find something to eat. He didn't eat anything for dinner as he wasn't hungry. Which was the same reason he hadn't eaten much recently; he just wasn't hungry. Janet had told him off for it the other day during their post mission exams. If he lost any more weight, she'd ground him.

Grabbing the jug of milk from the fridge, he set it on the counter next to box of Froot Loops. He went for a bowl, pulling it halfway out before changing his mind and going for the measuring cup. The four-cup Pyrex measuring cup with the spout broken off and the handle severely chipped was the stand by for when he was out of bowls and not feeling inclined to do the dishes. It would work better this morning, the handle providing an easy hand hold eliminating the risk of dumping frigid, wet milk and cereal down his shirt as he ate.

Sustenance in hand he retreated to the basement. Sinking into the chair, he slouched down, resting his feet on the edge of the coffee table, bringing his knees almost to his chest, providing a convenient resting place for his cereal. With spoon handling grace that would have his mother and Aunt Ida turning in their graves, he ate. Shoveling in spoonfuls of cereal, occasionally a bead of milk escaped running down his chin returning to where it came from, as an old episode of Hong Kong Phooey played across the television.

 

* * *

 

Sam, using both of her chopsticks, poked at the food in front of her. Red and slimy looking it looked more like an alien life form than food: and the smell, gah, it reminded her of the Colonel's fridge when she and Daniel had cleaned it out a while back. She poked at it again, trying to sum up the courage to take a bite, not wanting to be the one who caused diplomatic relations to falter because she couldn't handle one small bowl of food.

Casting a sideways glance at Daniel, it irked her to see that he had no qualms about eating it. Then again, he was always one to try new things, and eat something that looked more like entrails from a bad scifi/horror movie than food. At least she wasn't the only one having problems. Teal'c was also investigating his serving, his face contorted in a rare showing of displeasure as he moved the mixture of fermented vegetables around and Sam had yet to see him take a bite.

The Colonel on the other hand, who usually balked at eating alien food, didn't have a problem putting his serving away. She had watched in slight fascination as he effortlessly used the chopsticks and eagerly ate. It was just not right and Sam was glad that he was sharing a tent with Daniel. In the category of "I know too much about my commanding officer," the effect of spicy food was included.

At least Janet would be happy that he was eating something. Everyone in the infirmary had stopped and listened in on the argument between Janet and Colonel O'Neill. It was an argument that the Colonel was clearly losing, about more sleep and food. Sam was glad that the Colonel always insisted he went last, a pissed off Doctor Janet Fraiser was definitely not the person you wanted doing your exam.

"O'Neill, my symbiote has become distressed."

Sam's head shot up, whipping around to face Teal'c and settling her right hand on her side arm.

"Teal'c?" The Colonel's voice was edgy, and Sam noticed the careful shift in his demeanor from semi-relaxed to full readiness.

"It does not like this, Kim chi." Teal'c stumbled over the unfamiliar word, giving a slight wave at the food before him.

The man seated next to the Colonel who they'd come to know as Choi, said something and the Colonel replied. Another person whose name she thought was Hae said something as well causing the Colonel and the locals to laugh.

"Colonel?" Sam hated it when there was a language barrier and having to rely on someone to translate.

"Carter?"

"Jack don't be an ass. Play nice and fill us in on what was said." Daniel was clearly struggling with not being the language guru on this trip.

"It loses something in the translation."

There was an evil glint in his eye. Bastard. Sam wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and smack the smug look off of his face.  

"Don't worry, you won't get in trouble for not eating your vegetables this time. Choi and his gang are surprised that Daniel and I even ate it. Big points for the visiting team."

Thankfully, the rest of dinner was much more palatable; tender meat, more recognizable vegetables, soup and some type of sweet, chewy rice cake for desert. In contrast to most dinners they had taken part in offworld, this was the first one that Sam could remember where the worry of the locals being offended if they didn't eat something was gone. It was nice, relaxing, and fun despite the language gap. Colonel O'Neill seemed more confident in his role as translator compared to their first mission and appeared to have started enjoying the task.  

Sam wasn't sure where the Colonel was now. After dinner was over, there was entertainment, a sort of a meet and greet.  She, Teal'c, and Daniel had learned some Korean, Daniel picking it up way easier than she and Teal'c were. The Colonel had gone somewhere with Choi, saying that he would return shortly. They hadn't minded the music was wonderful even if you didn't understand everything, and a couple of the local women tried to get Daniel and Teal'c to dance.  They really needed a name, calling them the locals was getting very old very fast and felt a bit insulting seeing as they hadn't done anything wrong.

But shortly had flown right by and Sam was starting to get nervous that the Colonel hadn't returned. The locals didn't feel threatening, and had done nothing untowardly, but it didn't ease the fear that was coiling in her belly. Especially as she, along with Daniel and Teal'c, knew that everything wasn't quite kosher with Colonel O'Neill.

Scanning the area, she tried to spot the missing Colonel. Even in the low light of paper lanterns, the Colonel should stand out; he was taller than everyone and had an entire head of grey hair. Catching Daniel's attention, she made her way through the throng of people and over to where he, and now Teal'c as well, stood waiting.

"Hey Sam, where's Jack?" Daniel rose up on his toes, looking over their hosts' heads, "I saw Choi come back but haven't seen Jack."

"Maybe we should ask Choi?" Sam suggested, looking around for their missing team member once again.

Daniel's voice held a tint of nervousness, "We could try."

"Perhaps O'Neill is merely outside. He has become agitated in large crowds as of late."

"Teal'c?"

"Have you not noticed?" Teal'c lowered his voice, "That since our return from P9G-385, O'Neill avoids crowds of people and unnecessary contact with others."

Well shit. That news only made Sam's stomach clench tighter and she ran a hand through her hair, fingernails raking harshly against her scalp.  "All right, Teal'c, you check outside. Daniel and I will try to ask Choi."

Teal'c gave a slight bow of his head of his head and made his way outside. Sam and Daniel found Choi easily, and through a mix of broken Korean and English, she was pretty confident that they got their point across when Choi's face fell and a worried looking frown replaced the previously bright smile.

"MajorCarter!" Sam turned around at Teal'c's harsh whisper. "I have found O'Neill."

"Where?" Daniel asked before Sam could open her mouth.

"At our campsite. He is unconscious and I was unable to rouse him."

Crap.

 

* * *

 

His eyes were shut, lids clamped down so hard that it hurt. He tried to disappear. Willed himself to become small and unseen. To go in a puff of peridot smoke and turn up at his cabin in Minnesota. He tried so hard to shut everything out, to take his senses offline and retreat.

But it didn't work. He couldn't leave. He was there, experiencing their touch, almost a caress, and the rough words that came with; words that came in a language that he always found, soothing and comforting. Words that reminded him of fishing and hiking, getting lost in the woods, and swimming in the lake. Good memories of an old cabin in Minnesota where his grandmother yelled at him to wipe his feet, finish his vegetables, and slapped his hand for sticking his fingers in the cookie dough. His grandfather took him fishing, told him amazing stories, and taught him how to be a man.

He knew that he wasn't there. That he wasn't in Minnesota but on P9G-385, where old geezers with familiar accents and tongue were examining him like livestock. His mind was determined to hang on to the notion that soft touches and Irish words meant comfort and safety. They were unleashing the demons in his mental footlockers to play with the few good memories he still had. It was all wrong and he hated them for that.

Jack shuddered again. Tremors started in his head and neck and worked their way down through his arms and chest all the way to his toes. They had stopped touching him. Eyes still tightly closed he heard them step back. They were talking with each other discussing him. Each word that was said came through in waves between flashes of memories. Memories that were throwing a coup and taking over his mind like monkeys in a zoo.

He hated what they were saying about him. The marks on his body told them this that he was strong, brave, courageous, honorable, and worthy. A good warrior they said. A good warrior and an honorable soul.

They were wrong. If only they really knew where most of them came from. If they really knew what he did for most of his life, the 'damn distasteful things' he had done under the guise of following orders. The outright cruelty he was capable of and actions he had preformed without hesitation and the knowledge that he would do it again. He would pull that trigger, detonate that bomb, and give the order. Any of it. He'd do it again.

They were wrong.

 

* * *

 

Okay, that was odd.

Jack blinked, trying unsuccessfully to get the gunk out of his eyes. He must still be dreaming, or something. Hallucinating maybe? Jepp never wore a white lab coat, or scrubs. Or crummy tennis shoes for that matter. No he mostly stuck to jeans, sweaters, and crepe soled shoes. He wasn't even a doctor. Well, technically he was, they'd already had that particular argument before, he just didn't practice general medicine. Well, aside from a set of stitches here and there done on the side. Jepp was a shrink, a good one. One who didn't always follow the book of shrink-ism and preferred to find different ways to handle things.

So what exactly was going on?

Jack knew he was in the infirmary. A home away from home with crackly plastic covered mattresses and starched stiff pillowcases. The smell of latex and disinfectant and the familiar pull of medical tape against skin and body hair. It was complete with that special feeling that you didn't have any underwear on, and if you were lucky, there was a gown. Not that a gown was the highlight of fashion, but it was a lot better than waking up to find that there was just a thin white sheet keeping your bits out of the viewing public's eye.

A quick body part inventory revealed that general achy feeling he was getting used to living with. His stomach was protesting its lack of contents and his headached. A very bad headache but that was it. No broken bones, no pull of stitches, no wires or tubes in inappropriate places. Wait, he took that back, there was a Foley. Damn doctors had a tube fetish.

He waited, watching as Chris talked to someone in the next bed. A bone dry mouth wasn't exactly conducive to talking so he was stuck waiting. Jack figured that if it came to it, he couldn't probably knock something over to get Chris' attention. Anyone's attention really, he had questions that needed to be answered. And where was his team, weren't they usually here?

Not usually, they always were. It was a given, Teal'c, Daniel, or Carter would always be there when he came to. It was the same for each of them. They were never left to wake alone unless something happened. Something bad.  His heart sped up, beating wildly and sending the alarms into a tizzy as the worst scenarios raced through his head. Had the natives on P9G-385 gotten them too? Where they being systematically picked apart to show that they were worthy?

Someone was talking to him, telling him something but it wasn't coming through. There was too much interference for the communication method to work correctly. There were hands on his back, on his chest. Solid hands pressing with splayed-out fingers, not tracing, not following, not touching like the others. The one on his chest was thumping. Fingers gently slapping against his chest and Jack found it impossible not to get caught up in the pattern and his breathing eventually fell in time to it.

"Open your eyes."

They were open.

"No they aren't, open your eyes."

It was just wrong; doctors were getting to be pushy and demanding, and turning into mind readers. Answering things that you never said out loud.

Eyes open, for real this time, he saw a large follically challenged, shiny head.

"Jepp?" Damn it hurt to breathe and talk.

"Well I'm not Peter Jennings. We really should work on your waking up stints."

Huh? He looked around, trying to see if his team was around. They had to be there, they were always there, unless they were in the infirmary. And if they were there…

"Hey!"  There was a tap, almost a slap, on his face and his chin was held tight forcing him to look at Chris. "Your team is fine. You're the one who's scared the crap out of everyone. Passing out on planet Korea."

What? Oh lord his head hurt. Jack tried to bring his hands up to his head, but they wouldn't cooperate, the tug of an IV on his right wrist and his left arm kept hitting something.

There was talking again and someone else showed up. Sydnea? He recognized the smell of her perfume, lavender. He liked that smell, except when it was mixed with latex. Her hands were on his head, his face. They were smoother, thinner, smaller than Jepp's hands and Jack found himself relaxing, his muscles letting loose, leaving him pliant. There was the all telling burn of medication entering his veins and he wondered how long before he was returned to the temporary land of blissful non-existence.

"Jack," Sydnea was talking, her alto voice was soft, comforting. He liked it. "That's better. Your team is fine. They are sleeping in their quarters, and will be by to see you later."

"Dr. Jeppeson just gave you something that will help with your headache. You'll feel a lot better when you wake up again."

Jack gave a small nod, letting his eyelids fall shut, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lighting. His head hurt like a son of a gun, and his stomach was roiling.

"Hey there bud, you're gonna be okay. Sydnea's going to give you something to drink, it'll help settle your stomach and when you wake up again, you and I are going to have a rather long chat about proper care of oneself."

'Whatever Jepp.' He accepted the straw that was placed in his open mouth, and sucked. Gah, that stuff was nasty and he spit the straw out; resisting the urge to spit the disgusting slimy liquid in his mouth out with it.

"Ah, drink it."

Jack opened his eyes again, glaring at the man standing next to him. He finished drinking the stuff, whatever it was, choking it down. He felt like shit. Complete physical, mental, and emotional shit.

He was tried, exhausted would be a better description and Jack felt himself relaxing, melting into the normally uncomfortable bed and pillows. Jepp was talking again, but Jack wasn't listening. Sydnea was there, a warm washcloth on his forehead and her fingers carding through the hair on the side of his head, it was nice.

"Cold." Jack mumbled, turning on to his side and toward Sydnea. Cold air rushed across his back, butt, and legs as the blankets covering him were lifted away. He sighed appreciatively as warm blankets were placed directly over him and the other blankets replaced on top. Grasping the edge of the covers, Jack pulled them up and over his shoulder to fall just below his ears. He was warm. Home. Safe. Not on P9G-385.

 

* * *

 

Teal'c quietly waited next to his friend's bed in the infirmary. A book and a glass of water sat on the chair next to him. Hard plastics that were molded and carved in unsuccessful attempts to provide the best contoured "butt area," as Teal'c had heard Major Carter refer to it. It was curious that a race as advanced as the Tau'ri produced such items that were more suited as torture contraptions that comfortable seating. The infirmary was littered with them, giving a little bit of weight to O'Neill's frequent argument that Doctor Frasier was a closet sadist.  

O'Neill was motionless. In the three hours that he had been sitting there, Teal'c had yet to see the younger man move. It was disturbing and Teal'c found himself unable to focus on the book he had brought along. Instead, he had spent the last three hours watching his friend, monitoring for the slightest twitch or change in breathing. He wanted his friend, his brother, to wake up and let him know that everything was okay. They would never acknowledge it, but even Jaffa needed reassurances sometimes. Especially when it came to his Tau'ri 'family'.

He was aware that everything was not well with SG-1's commander since they had returned from P9G-385. O'Neill's pale and fatigued appearance and inward withdrawal had caused Teal'c great concern, but he had been unable to help his friend, O'Neill was very good at not being found, and avoiding things he did not want to talk about.

Patience was a virtue that he had been blessed with and found it offered many solutions to complex problems. So he waited, watching painfully as his friend continued his downward spiral knowing that if he went probing for answers, it would cause more pain. O'Neill preferred to find his own answers, and knowing that he always did, in time; all he could do was be there to cage the monkeys when it was all said and done.

The first Tau'ri adage Teal'c had learned was that hindsight is always twenty-twenty, though, he much preferred O'Neill's correction of hindsight was a bitch. Looking back Teal'c wished that he would have stepped in sooner, and had he known it would end this way, he would have.

Teal'c looked at his brother again, mostly hidden under the blankets that were clutched tightly under his chin. It was hard to believe that over a month had passed since the mission to P9G-385. The memories of finding O'Neill in the state that he did were still a constant companion, replaying every chance they received and making it difficult to achieve kel-no-reem.

 

* * *

 

"O'Neill." Teal'c called, his voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to startle or frighten his friend.  

The natives had come out of the small shack a short while ago, saying something in their tongue that DanielJackson had to translate. They had claimed that O'Neill was worthy, and that they would like to sit down and work out a trade with the Tau'ri. However, Teal'c didn't think it was wise. He did not trust these people and his symbiote was agitated.

"O'Neill, it is I, Teal'c." He tried again, carefully scanning the tiny building in search of his commander. He was deeply worried that he received no answer. The natives had told them that O'Neill was fine, that he would be out in a few minutes. When he had not appeared, Teal'c had volunteered to look inside.

"Teal'c?"

A voice, so soft that if it were not for this excellent hearing he would have missed it. He did not recognize it at first. It was shaky and full of fear, lacking the usual confidence that O'Neill always exuded even in the most trying situations.  

"Yes, O'Neill."

"Is it over?"

"It is indeed."

"Good."

"Are you well?"

"I… I don't know."

Teal'c followed the voice of his brother, finally finding him. O'Neill had tucked himself in to a small enclave in the far corner of the room. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his middle. His head was tilted back, constantly rocking back and forth between two upright posts, thunking softly with each contact. Reaching out with a kind hand, Teal'c stopped the movement, O'Neill noticeably shying away from the contact.

"Come, we are free to leave." Teal'c moved his hand down to O'Neill's shoulder, pulling him out of the corner with a firm, gentle grip.

"Teal'c, is everything okay in there?" Major Carter's voice squawked over his radio startling O'Neill, and renewing the trembling that had settled down.

"They took my clothes. Don't let them see me Teal'c."

Picking up the radio he depressed the button and spoke to the rest of his team. "Everything is fine MajorCarter, we will be out momentarily."  

In the more open light of the main room, Teal'c was able to get a better look at his commander.  He was pale, his eyes wildly darting around the room. There was something staining his face. Dark purple in color it was caked on his lips and smeared across his cheek and down his neck. Red marks on the side of O'Neill's face and around his neck would surely bruise. A closer inspection of his eyes proved he'd been drugged at some point, the brown irises a mere outline between the black pupil and white sclera.

"Do not worry O'Neill, we have retained possession of your pack." He gave the other man a comforting squeeze on the arm before quickly ducking outside to retrieve the mentioned pack. Once back, Teal'c helped his friend dress. He was worried about the lack of response and hoped it was only because O'Neill was drugged, and not something more serious.

Exiting the hut, Teal'c motioned for them to head back, successfully heading off any inquiries from DanielJackson and MajorCarter. One hand wrapped around O'Neill's left upper arm, he guided him back to the gate.

 

* * *

 

Waving a hand at Colonel Reynolds, Jack pushed his way into the locker room. SG-1 had an early start this morning. A four-day visit back to MXY-372, the planet yet to be named. Maybe they should call it Mixy, he'd have to propose that later. Carter was all grins and giggles over the mining operation there. She'd rambled on and on about it yesterday along with some of the geologists but he was a little lost as to what the specifics of their excitement. It may not seem like it but he always paid attention during briefings, even long non-military ones. But, to be honest, there were days like yesterday, when there would be something preoccupying his mind; like whether or not a water resistant cell phone could survive a full cycle through the washing machine. He really didn’t want to explain to General Hammond why he needed another replacement phone.

Stopping in front of his locker he made quick work of the lock and opened the door. He hung the lock on the top of the door and proceeded to empty his pockets. Wallet, keys, sunglasses, and cell phone, which did survive the washer, were all tossed on to the top shelf, bouncing as they landed on the warped metal. Tiredly he dropped down on to the bench, his boney ass protesting the harsh landing on the wooden surface. Slumping forward he rested his elbows on his knees and ground tired fingers into his face.

“Hey Jack, ready for today?”

Daniel. The man of impeccably bad timing. He'd had been working on his Korean since their first mission there and was looking forward to going back.

“Oh, as ready as one can ever be for a jaunt through the ol’ Chappai.” He answered from behind his hands.

Jack dropped his hands from his face. Crossing them, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it off over his head, letting it land in a balled heap in the bottom of his locker. Shoes and jeans were next. Listening to Daniel talk, Jack levered himself up, coming to his feet with a muffled groan. Multitasking, his hands made quick work of the fasteners while he worked on toeing off his shoes.  As the left foot slide out of its shoe, he was reminded of his grandmother's constant nagging to not do this. Her voice reverberating through the house the moment he walked in the door telling him to untie his shoes and take them off properly. Jack had always assumed that he got his 'intuition' from her.

His left shoe landed harmlessly next to the cigar box on the floor of his locker. The Van Dyck one his father had given him for school. It was amazing that that papered cardboard box had survived this long in relatively good shape. The right shoe had other ideas. It landed toe up on top of the left one, falling sideways and hitting the cigar box, causing the box to flip on end and tumble out onto the floor.

Pictures, letters, a card that Charlie had drawn, an old unit patch, his wedding ring, various other little pieces that meant something to a life he once lived. Scattered. Bits and pieces out for open display. Rudely yanked from their peaceful resting places. Papers glided across the floor, sailing on small air currents before coming to stop with a scrape across the floor. It was all agonizingly slow. The papers falling, his wedding ring rolling away, unit patches flopping like deadweight, the miscellaneous objects moving in ways befitting only to them. It was like watching a rose shatter after being dipped in liquid nitrogen.

"Shit"

Pants still unfastened, he knelt down and fumbled for the cigar box, his fingers shaking and uncooperative in his haste. Box finally in hand he started stuffing its contents back inside, uncaring if anything was bent or damaged. It seemed like everything in his life was uncaged at the moment and this was one thing he could fix; stuff some mementos back in their box.

Ring, photos, grandfather's insignia, each and every thing checked off the mental catalog of proper items. Daniel was there, helping, quietly handing things over, or maybe he was talking, but Jack didn't hear. He was too focused on making sure he had everything back.

But not everything was back. Something was missing. A small round pewter medal. Raised image of the St. Christopher carrying a child on the face, and on the flat reverse the words "St. Christopher Protect Us." His grandmother had given it to him when he joined the Air Force and made him promise her that he’d always carry it with him. And he did, sort of. He carried it in his cigar box that went everywhere with him, because even though he’d lost his faith in the church, and his grandmother had died a long time ago, he had a hard time not keeping a promise he made over twenty years ago.

Now it was gone, camouflaged by the grey, poured concrete floor. Damnit. He needed to get it back, put it back in the box were it would be safe. Where it would keep his team safe. Yes, he always said he wasn't superstitious, overtly at least, but he had his few hang ups. Little things that had to be done certain ways or objects that had to be left in a particular spot. Two in particular, the St. Christopher medal in his cigar box, and since coming to the SGC, General Hammond saying ‘Godspeed’ when they departed.

Sometimes you just had to believe in something, even if it might not be true.

Giving up on the search for now, he thanked Daniel for his help and stuffed the now battered box back into his locker. Catching a glimpse of his watch as he pulled his hand back gave him the bad news that he would have to look for the medal later. He had just enough time to finish changing before he had to meet with Hammond. Maybe the meeting would be quick and he'd be able to come back and do a quick scout before they headed off to MXY-392, a.k.a. Mixy.

 

* * *

 

“Why do you have a St. Christopher medal?”

Jack opened his left eye, not even bothering with the right one; it was smushed into his pillow along with the rest of the side of his face. His visitor’s face was half visible past the gleam of plastic hospital bracelets, and dull textured shine of bed rails. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. Wait, that was backwards. His brain was a bit slow. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. That was better, and fitting description of the man staring back at him. Chris wasn’t supposed to be in scrubs, he was a head shrinker, not a body doctor.

“See, I told you he was awake.”  Chris, crowed, a cheeky grin going to someone on his left.

Jack shifted slightly, pleased to see that his head didn’t try and blow up and out like a grenade. Not that it was pain free, but not outright take the Lord’s name in vain agony either. A gentle throb, on one side of his head, maybe both, it was taking too much energy to figure it out. He squinted his eye, but was at the wrong angle to properly make out the second person.

That was okay though, she moved and he caught sight of her. Sydnea. She’d been there last time. He liked her. She was nice. And if he was a little bit older, or she a bit younger, and if she wasn’t taken, he just might take another stab at that marriage thing. Sydnea finished messing with IV bags and lines then offered him a spoon of ice chips, the only thing worthy of eating in the infirmary.

Jack waited until the ice had done its magic and his mouth worked again. “Marry me?”

“I don't think Kevin would like that very much.”

“We don't have to tell him.”

She laughed, giving him another spoonful of ice and replacing the cloth that was on his head. He’d forgotten it was there, but the newly wet loops of terry cloth felt good. One more spoonful and she was off. Jack snorted, watching as she walked past Chris and smacked him on the shoulder with a stern warning of “be nice.”

“So?”  

“So?”

“Why do you have a St. Christopher's medal?”  Chris was flipping the object in question between his fingers. It was strangely hypnotic. Back and forth, from one end of his hand to the other and back again.

“Does it matter?”  His voice felt rough as the moisture in his mouth dried up.  “And why are you going through my stuff? Inquisitive meddling man. Perhaps he was a yenta in another life.

“It fell out of your pocket, or something when you were brought in the other day.” Chris rolled his eyes.  “And, well you don’t strike me as the superstitious or praying type. The only time I see you pray is before getting in a car with me which I really don’t understand.”

“You're shittin’ me?”  Did his voice just squeak? No not squeak, crack. Crack because his mouth and throat were dry. “For Pete's sake Jepp, Satan himself would pray before getting in a car with you. You are a maniac and out to kill air. “

"Are you done?"

"Yes, thinking about the nauseating car trips with you is bad enough."  Jack shut his eyes and reached up to pull the now warmish washcloth over his eyes. He’d let the man rile him up.

“I’m hurt.”  Chris smacked a hand to his chest, clutching at his heart.  “Anyway, the medal?”

“Why must you know? “

“Just wondering.”

“My grandmother gave it to me.” He stared at Chris, willing him to drop it. He really didn’t feel like talking about it. Psychoanalyzing the reasoning behind keeping that medallion in his locker because it was essentially a rabbit’s foot. His lucky charm that, for reasons he wasn’t even sure of, gave him a small sense that everything would end up okay. Jack didn't think that he would be able to admit for the entire meeting with Hammond before leaving for Mixy he was consumed with an unsettling feeling because that little piece of pewter was nowhere to be found.

He also wasn't going to give up the information that he was relieved when Carter had given it to him the Gateroom while they were waiting for the dialing sequence to complete. She had found it by her locker as she was changing and had asked Daniel about it, who referred her to him. Jack had dropped it in his hip pocket as the last chevron engaged and up until passing out, he had felt at ease for the first time since P9G -385.

"Jack?"  

He knew that tone of voice, the one that meant that Chris was annoyed because Jack hadn't paid attention to anything he had just said.

"What?"

"You went on holiday there for a moment. Nice to see you again."

The Doc Frasier early warning system was going off; he could hear her heels on the floor. This was good, avoid discussing things of a personal intimate nature with nosy head shrinker fiend, err friend. This was also bad, unavoidable conversation about the care and well being of oneself with specific attention given to proper diet and sleeping habits.

The worst part was that he didn't stand a chance. Doc and Chris against him was a one hundred percent guaranteed loss for him. Jack closed his eyes, preparing himself for the onslaught. When he opened them Janet was there, standing behind Chris, his chart held against her chest and her finger nails drumming eerily against it. Terrifying was a good word. Yes, a very good word to describe the scene in front of him, and he tried to fortify himself for what would come.

 

* * *

 

It smelled like wet burlap. Wet, moldy burlap that clung to the stale air like plastic shrink-wrap off a DVD case. He tried sneezing to get it out of his nostrils, but all that accomplished was a smack across the chest with a knotted cane and the harsh command to not move.  He would make a smart quip about false advertisement, but they wouldn’t understand it and it would probably only result in him getting jabbed by one of the sharp implements of impalement that the beefy guys on the side were toting.

Come in! Let’s have a chat to see if you are worthy of dealing with. It won’t take long, just a few short questions with our esteemed leader here. The only thing missing from their political campaign sounding speech was “I’m the leader and I support/approve/authorize this message.”

Oh they asked their questions all right, then things deviated from the let’s have an interview, to let’s strip the visitor and poke at him. Jack felt like he’d been tossed into the demented carousel of a freak show that belonged to Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s Karn Evil 9. The look-see he could deal with, but the touching, the touching was slowly eroding his fragile hold on his memories.

 

* * *

 

Jack woke up startled; his limbs flailed banging to the wooden armrest of the deck chair and railing.  If he were in the infirmary, the cardiac monitor would be having its own version of a coronary as his heart went beating out of control. Fluttering around in his chest cavity like debris at the base of a tornado.

Looking around, he found himself on his back deck, alone. He must off dozed off for a bit after withdrawing outside earlier when the walls started to close in.  It was chilly, borderline cold as the sun started its rise, eerily highlighting the approaching storm clouds. He pried himself out of his Adirondack chair, feeling the pain in his lower back from spending to long in the hard seat. Wind whipped its way around the back of his house and Jack turned his head up to the sky, looking for something. He didn’t find it, whatever it was, Jack wasn’t sure he knew himself. All he got was wet plop of sticky mountain rain trying to take his eye out.

Closing his eyes, Jack let his head hang backward for a few more moments, working up the energy to go inside and get ready for another vexing day.

 

* * *

 

Jack exhaled, letting the air puff out his cheeks allowing it to escape. He was not looking forward to what lay ahead on the other side of the heavy oak door that was being held open for him. Hearing his named called, he finished the line he was reading and looked up, eyes automatically focusing on the aforementioned door. A woman, in black jeans and t-shirt with the Colorado Rockies logo on it, was there. She was leaning against the open door holding his, well presumably his, file in one hand and was twirling a classic Bic stick pen in the other.

Standing with a five-part harmony of joint pops and cracks, Jack returned the surprisingly current issue of National Geographic to the battered coffee table. It was pitiful looking, the coffee table. The finish was shot and there were visible gouges across the top. There was also glue, dried elongated tear drops of it that ran down the table legs from the mortise and tenon joints. It made the woodworker in him cringe. The table was either, made in some high school woodshop class or had been repaired once or twice, or more.

If he was into all that deconstructing things to find their meaning and how they symbolize life and society, he would say that the coffee table symbolized putting the pieces back together after they fell apart. Fitting for a shrink’s office.

He picked up pace, noticing the borderline impatient look on the young lady’s face, and followed her through the short maze of corridors to arrive at their destination, the office or whatever this guy decided to call his room. It didn’t really matter to him. Jack had only agreed to see this Sean Fitzpatrick guy once, and then only to get his high holiness Jepp off his ass. So, he would be good, keep his promise here and then he was going for a burger. Screw Dr. Frasier’s instructions on proper food intake.

 

* * *

 

There was something in his boot. Moving around with each step he took. It started under his heel, and he had originally thought that his sock had slid down, bunching under his foot and attempting to give him a blister. He’d managed to get a hold of the top of this sock and pull up. But it didn’t work. Whatever it was had moved under the arch of his foot causing him to cringe with every step.

The sensible thing to do would be to take off his boot and find the offending item. And he would, if he hadn’t found and killed that waterbug in his closet while getting dressed. His insane aversion to bugs was feeding him with evil thoughts of the thing in his shoe being a dead body. As much as it was bothering, the thought of finding a dead body in his shoe outweighed the desire to remove the offending object. He shuddered and tried to divert his thinking, going back to pacing around and throwing a tennis ball against the outside wall. So far he had succeeded in his goal of not hitting any of the pictures hanging there.

Hearing the door open behind him he tensed; his body going on alert, ready to pounce if needed.

“Colonel O’Neill?”

Jack turned around, awkwardly pivoting on his heel on the nauseatingly green plush carpet. He relaxed, slightly, upon seeing the man who had just entered the door. He looked like Qui-Gon Jinn, only with much shorter hair that was attempting to be red and minus the goatee. Teal’c had wanted to watch Star Wars again the other night.

“Yes?”

Jack eyed the man, noticing the limp slight sagging of his right shoulder as the other man crossed the small distance to his desk. Dropping the files he’d been carrying on the desk and turned to face Jack, sticking his right hand out, “Sean Fitzpatrick.”

“Jack O’Neill.”

Jack returned the gesture and followed him across the office to the dilapidated couch and recliner. The recliner looked more like a pumpkin orange death trap than comfortable seating. The couch? It was probably a 1970s throw back, hideously faded green with gold-ish flower like design. I was probably once a prized possession protected by a fitted clear vinyl cover.

“I’m disappointed”

“Oh?” Sean lifted his eyebrows in question as he fell back into the recliner, his feet not making it to the floor.

“You don’t have one of them fancy couches.” Jack flung his arm out to the side. “You know the ones that look like an over-glorified lounge chair.”

“You’re disappointed because I have an old crappy couch instead of a fancy chaise lounge.”

“Yeap.” Jack plopped down in the middle of couch, his butt sinking down in crack where the seat and back cushions met. When Jack looked up he found Sean Fitzpatrick staring at him, doing his own threat assessment.

“So, what brings you to my disappointing office today?” Sean brought his heels up to rest on the edge of the folded in footrest, the stereotypical notepad and writing utensil absent.

“I promised a friend.” He answered, looking the other man directly in the eye, challenging him. What was reflected back scared the crap out of Jack. Truth. This Sean Fitzpatrick was going to very slowly pull the truth out of him like a loose thread in underwear band elastic that never seemed to end.

 

* * *

 

The door from the living room to the deck squeaked, giving Jack a heads up that someone was coming and reminding him that we really needed to put some WD40 on that hinge. He ignored the scuffing of heels on his new composite decking and focused on the hunks of beef currently cooking on his grill.

“So?”

“So?”  Jack accepted the bottle of beer that was offered and poked the meat on the grill. He was hoping that Chris would do something for the first time, that he would leave him alone, because Jack did not want to talk about it. He had talked enough this week. There was a first time for everything, today just didn’t feel like the day that Chris would choose to leave something alone and mind his own damn business.  Just how did he end up with Chris, a shrink, for a friend?

“How did it go?”

“It went.” That’s good don’t give anything away. No need to admit that maybe, just maybe perhaps Chris had actually known what he was talking about. The man’s ego was big enough no need to stroke it.

“Good or bad?”

“Indifferent.” There was no way that Jack was going to admit that he found a smidgen of the stuff Fitzpatrick had to say was helpful. Nope.

“You see him again?”

“Friday.” The word slithered out of its own accord, proceeding to dance around in front of him, the letters flailing around like the limbs from a football player celebrating a touchdown with a bad attempt at combining several 1960’s dance crazes. Perhaps there was a reason to doubt his sanity. Imaginary dancing letters that taunted you had to be wrong.

“Good.”

“Thanks”

“Anytime”

Jack could feel the smugness radiating from Chris. And there was no need to turn around, he knew the look that would be in Chris’ eyes; the one that bordered on manic and left you wondering if Chris was the one with the mental problems and not his patients. The littlest things stroked his ego beyond imaginable.

“I hate you.” He didn’t mean it, not really. Not in the way that it came out, a harsh guttural grunt of displeasure. Chris, despite how much of an opinionated ass he was on his best days, was still his friend, best friend.

“I know. Beer?”

“Yeah.” Jack reached for the tongs, carefully flipping the steaks over and wondering how people could stand to eat meat that wasn’t fully cooked, and why chicken was considered a better option that steak.

 

* * *

 

“Sam said that we should go off and be, in her exact words 'gross and disgusting male members of the species,' we being Teal’c, Jack, and I. As if we didn’t get enough of the camping experience at work here we are, parked some way too many feet up a mountain in a wind proof, and soon to be tested for water proofing, four person tent 

I fully expected Chris to come. Jack and him are really good friends, but it’s hard to see at first. Jack and I have always bickered back and forth but never all out physical confrontation.  Jack and Chris on the other hand, they argue, insult, and I’ve seen them go after each other, physically. Punches flying and grappling around on the floor until one of them ends up hurt. I have also seen them have in depth near philosophical conversations about various topics.

On the other hand, it’s a bit of relief that he’s not here. I don’t think that I could handle four days in the woods with the tooth-picking, poppy sniffer and his bad English accent. Do poppies even have a smell? I’ll have to search on Google for that when we get back, after my insanely hot shower in an effort to not smell like the Colorado mountainside.”

Daniel looked up from his writing, tucking the gel pen in the crease of his leather journal and turned off the small LED book light he was using. The rest of the tent was dark and it took a few minutes for his eyes to fully adjust to the lack of light.  

He sighed. Jack was having another nightmare. The familiar guttural sounds and occasional word slips out confirming that the awkward involuntary bending and twisting his body is doing is not caused by some inconveniently located rock or stick under his sleeping bag. Rather by synapses firing off as his subconscious decided to throw a rave.  For a guy with a bad back and even worse knees, Jack was impressively limber.

“O’Neill.” Teal’c’s meaty arm appeared from the darker opposite corner of the tent. Teal’c’s voice when he spoke, was soft and even, louder than a whisper but not remarkably close to his usual precise speaking timbre. In the faint light, he watched as Teal’c laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. Men of Teal’c’s size always seemed to move with surprising grace and gentleness.

‘Did Jack have nightmares the last couple of nights?’ Daniel asked himself, frozen with indecision. He’d turned in early the previous nights, exhausted from their activities and had slept solidly through the night waking up in the morning to coffee and breakfast cooking. Jack seemed fine during the day, almost back to his usual hyperactive self. But then again, Daniel knew how good Jack’s acting skills were.

“O’Neill.” Teal’c spoke again, his voice a forceful hush.

Daniel waited quietly, watching in the grey light of night as Jack struggled with demons that only he knew, and was unable to share. Jack squirmed around again, his nylon sleeping bag swishing in accompaniment. Nightmares of this intensity always ended quicker than they began. A quick gasp of breath and cease of movement signaled that Jack had woke up.

Jack sat up, sliding his upper body free of the sleeping bag with visibly shaky arms. He was breathing, taking loud, heaping gasps of air that filled the silent tent eerily.

“Teal’c?”

Daniel’s ear’s perked up at Jack’s gasped words, hoping that perhaps, maybe, there was a fleeting chance that Jack would divulge even the tiniest snippet of what was going on his head.

“I am here O’Neill.”

“Thanks.” Jack nodded and Daniel watched colorlessly as Teal’c reached across and replaced a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Kansas was boring. Long, boring expanses of paved interstate and intermittent radio signals. Flat like land went on forever in all directions. It was occasionally interrupted with interstate exits, stone fences, and, what Jack swore was the curvature of the earth. Or he could just be he was imagining it as a by-product of the over caffeinated, sleep deprived, physical and mental exhaustive state that his body was currently in.  It was dark now and completely worthless arguing over something that wasn’t even currently visible, even if you were only debating with yourself. Jack shrugged, blindly reaching for his pop taking a long slurping drink from the straw.

He didn’t know where he was going, not any more, in any sense really.  He didn’t get up this morning and suddenly decide that he was going to drive to Kansas. He had gotten up that morning with a plan of completing some long awaited landscaping and yard work. Teal’c had come over to help him replace some railroad tie flowerbeds with landscaping timbers and trim some tree limbs. That was the plan at least; somewhere along the way between his house and the Home Depot they ended up where they were now. Sitting on the tailgate of his truck eating diner food from a styrofoam box in the Stuckey’s parking lot off I-70 in Paxico, Kansas.

“O’Neill”

Jack looked over to the large man seated next to him. Teal’c had been infinitely fascinated by the interior decor of the Stuckey’s, idly commenting that it reminded him of 1969.  Jack had to agree, walking into a Stuckey’s did take you back in time, especially when it was the only building around.

“T?”

“If I may ask, what is it that you are trying to find?”

Jack tilted his head back, feeling the painful pull of stiff and knotted muscles in his neck. He held the position for the moment, thinking about Teal’c’s question. Daniel, Chris, and even that Sean feller had asked him that particular question, but no amount of wishing or praying was granting him the answer.

He let his head fall back down, glancing at Teal’c, then looking around again, taking in the vast emptiness that surrounded them. Even with the muted lighting of the now closed Stuckey’s, Jack was still able to see a sky jam packed full of massive, luminous ball of plasma. Stars that normally brought him a sense of peace and direction were hanging him out to dry with a discombobulated mess of inner turmoil.  

“I don’t know Teal’c, I really don’t.”

“Have your visits to SeanFitzpatrick not helped?”

“I have more questions than answers.” He rolled his eyes and waved a hand in the air.

“So is life O’Neill.” It came out with a sigh, lending a small bit of comfort to him knowing that he was not the only one frustrated with having no answers to the many questions that plagued him.

Jack grunted, chasing bits of country style potato around the bottom of the takeout box with a wilted spork. Maybe he could spork whatever it was to death. He’d need a better spork though, maybe one of the metal ones that he had over in the toolbox.

Teal’c was speaking again, his voice low and soft, exuding confidence and wisdom. “You can not let the darkness over take the stars O’Neill. Maybe the sky no longer blinds you as it once did but that does not mean that there is nothing left to see. You will once again find what you are looking for.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I have faith.”

“Faith?”

“Yes, O’Neill, we all need faith in something.” Teal’c reached over and rested a soft hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Everything will be well in the end.”

“What if it’s not?”

“Then it is not the end.” Teal’c’s voice contained an unheard of balance of levity and seriousness that Jack had never heard before.  

They sat there, on the tailgate of Jack’s truck their feet hanging clear of the ground swaying slightly. Cars sped by on the interstate and the occasional shine of someone’s brights as they came up the two-lane road would temporarily blind them. Jack thought the carts that ran his mind were going as fast as they could to put things in order and make connections, feeling for the first time since P9G-385 that he felt a tiny sliver of something resembling peace.

Jack rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, up over his head and dropped down in front of his face, pausing to look at his watch. 0200.  Shit. They’d been sitting there for a long time. It was a wonder that the owners hadn’t called the police. Thankfully they hadn’t and he and Teal’c wouldn’t have to call and have one of SG-1, or worse, General Hammond, come and bail them out leaving Jack to explain what exactly they were doing in the Stuckey’s parking lot in Paxico, Kansas, nine hours from Colorado Springs at 0200.

Jack levered himself off the tailgate, his feet crunching a bit on the loose bits of asphalt. They should get a move on it, but not back home; Jack wasn’t ready for that yet. So, where to? Stay on the interstate or go tooling around the back roads of Kansas? He rocked back and forth on his feet, stretching his leg muscles and weighing the decision.

Mind made up he pivoted around to face Teal’c who stood out in the meager lighting.  Teal’c was apparently going through another bright color phase. “Ever been to Concordia Teal’c?”

“I have not.”

“They have this little German waffle house there with the best Banana Bonanzas.”

“What is this Banana Bonanza?" Teal’c stood up, brushing the back of his pants off.

"Pancakes, sliced bananas, and whipped cream"

"This sounds most delicious, O’Neill, I wish to procure one."

“Hop in.” Jack flipped the tailgate up and headed for his door.

 

* * *

 

On her tiptoes, Janet tried to reach the across the round table on her deck. Fingers waving madly in their desperate plight to grasp the edge of the pink plastic Tupperware cup on the opposite side of the table. Her backyard was currently full of hyper teenagers attempting to cause their bodies serious harm by doing only god knew what on the trampoline.

Janet wasn’t even sure why she agreed to the trampoline in the first place. The little miniature and more cynical version of herself that existed inside her was having no problem listing, in full detail, all of the possible injuries that could be incurred and it only talked more if she watched the uncoordinated gaggle of teenage appendages tempt the law of gravity with the aid of the spring loaded backyard gymnastic contraption of death. So Janet didn’t watch much. It was just better that way and her mother always said that sometimes it was just easier not knowing.

It was safe to say anyways that she fulfilled her watching quota earlier. Cassie and her two friends had managed to convince Sam and Daniel to get on it. Janet had watched then, seated next to the Colonel, participating in synchronized flinching each time one of them bodily slammed into the springy surface after failing to meet their objective of performing a somersault.

Deciding that resistance was not the only futile thing in existence, Janet gave up trying to get a hold of the cup. Sighing she straightened, pulling the hem of her shirt down and brushing off the potato chip crumbs that had attached themselves as she leaned across the table. Janet moved around the table to get the last cup and carried it and its compatriots back into her house, letting them clatter into the dry cast iron sink bowl.

She paused, her hand resting on the faucet handle debating whether or not to start the task of washing the dishes. Cassie would be a lost cause; maybe she could con one of the adults out back to doing them, or at least helping. This all could have been avoided had she listened to the Colonel’s advice and used paper plates instead, but why do things the easy way?

Hands braced on the edge of the counter in front of the sink, Janet pushed herself up, raising her up enough to see out the kitchen window and see her own backyard, instead the neighbors.  Cassie and her friends were still squeeing their teenage-selves out on the trampoline, Daniel and Sam were leaning against the chain link fence and the Colonel… He was missing.

The Colonel had been slouched in the wooden deck chair, his extremely worn and weathered military green baseball cap pulled over his eyes. Janet really didn’t understand how he could sleep like that, slouched down and awkwardly to the left, hat pulled down over his face. Who would want to sleep with the sweatband of their hat planted firmly under their nose? But he was sleeping, something they had all been struggling to help him attain lately.

“Keeping watch over the herd?”

Startled, Janet felt her heart kick in to high gear and air rush out of her lungs as her arms gave up and dropped her back to the floor. She took a deep breath, forcing her respiratory system to work for her, instead of its current state of revolt. A glance to her left confirmed her initial fleeting thought that it was Colonel Jack O’Neill who had nearly scared the pee waddin out of her.

The colonel was leaning against the doorframe from the utility room, hands stuffed in his pockets and his aforementioned hat non-existent leaving atypical hat hair behind. It was no fair, Janet thought, that he could pull his hat off and have not have the long standing problem of disfigured hairstyle that was helmet hair. He was smiling. Not a big smile, but a smile. A real one, one that actually reached his eyes a bit and was a reminiscent of him before P9G-385.

“Someone has to be the shepherd.”

The Colonel merely nodded in response, not moving from his position of holding up the door way.

Janet grabbed the stopper from the backsplash and shoved it into the sink drain as she turned the hot water tap on. She had been planning to rope one of the adults into helping with the dishes, but the Colonel’s near heart attack inducing arrival spared her the extra work. Leaning over, she opened a drawer and pulled out a fresh towel, throwing it at the Colonel.

The towel hit him, obscuring the very worn and faded Guinness logo on his chest. He caught it before it fell to the floor, flinging the green and white checked terry cloth over one shoulder and ambled his way over to the sink. They worked quietly, Janet washing the dishes and handing them off to the Colonel to be rinse, dried and put away. Two sink loads later, Janet dropped the last item, a grisly pan that should have been washed at least a day earlier, into the slimey brown dishwater.

“So…” Janet rinsed the greasy residue from her hands, shaking some of the water off before grabbing a towel and turning around to lean against the counter. She was unexplainably nervous, unsure of what the Colonel’s reaction would be when she finally asked the questions she was struggling to formulate.

“Doc?” The Colonel dried the last dish, carefully returning it to its home in a cabinet. He turned around to face the same direction as Janet, then hoisted himself up to sit on the counter. The heels of his shoes banged loudly against the lower cabinets, and Janet turned to glare at him, seeing him wince at the noise.

“How are you doing?” Inwardly, Janet rolled her eyes at herself for asking such a lame question.

“Okay, I guess. The knees, the back, still the same.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Janet watched as he fiddled with the now damp dishtowel. Twisting it until it would coil up go no further then letting it unfurl. His head was pointed down, and Janet turned slightly so that she could focus on his face more easily and see the expressions that passed by as he struggled to find the words he could allow himself to say. They’d done this cryptic scheme before.

“How was your trip with Teal’c?” The impromptu trip that caused much anxiety until Teal’c called Daniel. Sam, Daniel, Janet, the General, they had all been on edge the three days that Jack and Teal’c were gone.

“Okay.”

“Just okay? Teal’c seemed to of enjoyed it.”

He gave a small laughed. “He just liked the Banana Bonanzas and thought that western Kansas was most fascinating.”

“Banana Bonanzas?”

“Pancakes, bananas, whipped cream.”

“Ah.” Janet nodded her head not seeing anything special about that particular food combination.

“Doc…Janet,” The Colonel paused, took a deep breath and exhaled nosily before starting again. “You ever go after something thinking it was the answer to everything. That after you found it, everything would be okay. Only when you find it, if you find it, it doesn’t work, nothing changes except that you are left with more questions than answers.”

Janet nodded pushing away from the counter, walked over to the refrigerator, and pulled out two cans of coke. She walked back over to where the Colonel was still seated on the counter and offered him one of the cans. He accepted it and Janet leaned back against the island counter opposite of him. Making quick work of the pop tab, Janet took a sip before she spoke, "My mom used to tell me, that there was only one girl who went over the rainbow, and you know what she found don't you puddin' pie?" Her voice was low, a bit wistful as she recalled the memory, and a bit of southern drawl peeked out near the end.

"There's no place like home." The Colonel whispered, looking up from teasing the tab on his own can.

"Yeah. The answers you're looking for aren't as far away as you may think. They are just waiting to be found, hiding out in your own backyard. They've probably always been there; you're just looking too hard."

"Forest for the trees?"

"You could put it like that." Janet gave a small and hopefully encouraging smile. "It might be disappointing and not the grandiose thing you think it is, but it doesn't matter. Don't let it worry you, the truth is always better. You can't tie a poem to the chair and torture the meaning out of it, you have to skim the surface and let it come to you. You'll find what you're looking for when you stop looking so hard."

"Mmhmm." He just nodded in reply.

Janet watched as the Colonel stopped fiddling with his still unopened can setting it on the counter next to him and scrubbed his hands across his face and back through his hair, leaving his hands up behind his head. He looked exhausted, but perhaps, a little more comfortable in his own skin. She knew that whatever it was that was bothering him had been doing so since long before their ill fated trip to P9G-385. That was just icing on the cake sending an already precariously balanced mind reeling over the edge.

She took another look at him and crossed the small area between them. She reached out to him disregarding his flinch and wrapped her arms gently around his waist. Even stubborn colonels needed a hug now and then. "Jack. I can't promise you that everything will work out. I'd love to be that kind of person. But I can promise you that I'll always listen to you. I can promise you that I'll always work my damndest to heal you. I can promise that you’re never alone."

“A hell Janet, Why'd you have to go get all mushy on me?” His voice was rough yet light as he brought his arms up to return the gesture. “I know all that stuff, Janet; it's in my bones to know it. It will settle down. It's just gonna take some time. I’ll be ok. I'm just really tired.”

"That you are Jack. Promise me you'll get some rest?" Janet tightened her arms around him briefly before letting go and taking a step back.

“Yes, Mother.” He huffed in a teenage like manner and rolled his eyes at her.

“Good, now get off my counter top. Counters are for glasses, not asses Colonel.”

He let out a bark of laughter and obediently slipped off the counter. Grabbing his previously neglected can of pop, he ducked out the back door leaving Janet standing alone in the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Sean Fitzpatrick liked to think that he was persistent, a follow through type of guy who didn’t like things, or people, to slip through those ever-present crevices. His mother called him stubborn and blamed it on the Irish in his father’s side of the family. Sean figured she just didn’t want to admit that half of his genes came from her, and her very German filled ancestry. Stubbornness and an overachieving sense of responsibility for his people, Sean didn’t like the word patients, was a good thing for his line of work, most of the time.  Sometimes, like now, it was a curse as he rode through quite suburban streets.

Riding a motorcycle at night wasn’t one of the smarter things he’d ever done. Wasn’t the dumbest either, but it just went to prove that just because he was a doctor, it didn’t mean that he was exempt from doing dumbass things. He was, after all, in full possession of what his colleague, Theresa, liked to refer to as a broken X chromosome. She said that it caused males to miss out on all those important proteins that make women superior and it scared Sean a little that he was beginning to agree with her. Except that women were superior, he couldn’t quite agree to that.

Pulling into the driveway, he held on tightly as his rear tire slid on an errant patch of ice. Colorado seemed to be like all the other places he had lived, the weather had a life of its own and didn’t mind dishing out a freeze in April. Parked safely next to the behemoth truck in the driveway, the small coil of panic in his chest released, and with it his mother’s voice and her opinions on his choice of motor vehicle. She had disapproved of him buying his bike, informing him over dinner how he should have a good sturdy car to handle the cold and icy weather that she was convinced lasted all year in Denver. His father had backed her up arguing that he was a doctor and shouldn’t he have a shiny Audi or BMW. But when had drove his new Indian Chief Vintage into his parent’s driveway, his dad couldn’t wait for a chance to ride it.

He approached the open garage door cautiously, not sure what to make of the lack of sound. Normally situations like this were accompanied with noise, lots of noise. , lots of sound, music, movement, language, sometimes a mixture of all four Pausing in the doorway, he took a few minutes to take in the splattered workshop area. A mottled workbench ran the length of the wall on his right, a pegboard of carefully organized tools mounted on the wall above it.  It looked like it belonged in a production management textbook, it was only missing the outline for each tool. Sean didn’t think that Jack was anal enough to draw outlines and turn his tool board into a tool homicide scene from an old noir movie.

The other half of the garage, was a down right filthy mess of clay, paint, orange Homer buckets, and haphazard shelving. In the middle of it sat his quarry, the stubborn man that he was coming to regret accepting as a patient. Chris was going to owe him big time for this. Two weeks he’d skipped his appointments. The first week he found out was because of a sudden road trip with that Murray fellow, who gave Sean’s gut a funky feeling. This last week, there hadn’t been any type of communication from him and that left Sean slightly worried. Even more so when Chris confessed at lunch that he hadn’t heard from Jack either, it took quite a bit to rattle Chris.  So, after trying for several hours to fall asleep, he gave up. His head was filled with thoughts and worst-case scenarios that it made his stomach churn and led him on his cross county sojourn to find the cause of it all.

Entering slowly, he made sure to let his boots scuff the slab concrete floor of the garage, no need to startle anyone. Jack was seated on rickety looking squat three-legged stool, his legs tucked back on either side. He was painting, right hand stuffed inside some weird pot thing, while the left one held the brush. A right-handed person painting with their left hand? Curiouser and curiouser as Alice would say. Ignoring his grandmother’s warnings about the consequences that befell felines who couldn’t control their curiosity, Sean grabbed a bucket and flipped it upside down and took a seat.

Casually leaning against the tidy but dinged up work bench Sean sucked in a deep breath, steeling himself to go up against the formidable person across the room. “You do know that it’s like three in the morning don’t you?”

“And?”

Sean was disappointed in the lack of reaction; no pause, not even the briefest glance away from what he was doing. Just ‘and’ as if Jack was an English teacher patiently correcting a student’s grammar.

“People sleep at three in the morning.”

“Some people sleep at three in the afternoon.” Jack fired back just as nonchalantly as before.

“Do you sleep at three in the afternoon?” Sean prayed that the splitting sound he just heard wasn’t the bucket he was sitting on.  He was too old to be sitting on one in the first place, but it beat the milk crate option.

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Jack reared around to face Sean, the paintbrush still in his hand careened against the side of the pot, leaving an earthy orange streak down the middle of a yellow patch.

Finally! Sean inwardly cheered at the snarling voice and death causing facial expression thrown his way.

“Just asking.” He held his hands up in typical ‘I surrender’ Fashion “From your tone I thought maybe you were the forefront expert on sleeping habits of homo sapiens.”

“What do you want?” Jack rolled his eyes and awkwardly twisted his arm to look at his watch “It’s zero three fifteen, shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Refusing to let the other man rile him up, Sean continued, knowing that his calm mood set would irritate the hell out of Jack. “I have a question, a query for you. Does your team trust you?”

 

* * *

 

Jack lowered his arms letting the paintbrush fall from his left hand and the pot dangling from his right hand, his thumb the only thing keeping the pot from smashing to the floor. It was already ruined, yellow was not a very forgiving, there was no way he’d be able to put yellow on top of the erroneous orange streak.  He rubbed his forehead knowing that it wouldn’t make his headache borderline migraine go away.

Head resting against his hand, the heel of his hand falling it to the indent at the top of his nose, Jack turned his gaze to the annoying man at his workbench. “You came all the way over here to ask me that?”

“Yes! Right now, what do you think about your team? Do they trust you?”

“Of course I trust my team!” Jack exploded, jumping to his feet the pot slipped off his balled up fist and crashed to the drop cloth covered floor. “What right do you have to come in here and insinuate that I don’t trust my team. Maybe you’ve spent too much time around your damn head shrinking colleagues and need to go out and get your brain re-inflated”

Jack could feel his nostrils flaring, his rib cage expanding and contracting with each forced breath. His face was tingling and Jack tried to force down the panic that was welling in his stomach. He do didn’t feel like having a full blow panic attack at the moment, it would not end well at all.

“I know you trust your team.” Sean answered back seemingly unbothered by Jack’s outburst. “What I want to know is, do you think that your team trusts you?”

“What?” Jack’s mind stopped, the breaks engaging leaving him standing there eyes wide open, lungs frozen in mid inhalation like a live action version of Han Solo at the end of The Empire Strikes back. He nearly choked when his body took over and forced him to breathe or pass out.

“What do you think, does your team trust you?” Sean took great care in enunciating each word, adding clarity to the same question Jack had originally misunderstood.

He thought about the question for a few moments, rolling the question through his mental fingers as he tried to formulate an answer. Was this what everything was about? Trying to figure out if his team trusted him? If they still had an ounce of faith in a man who lead an unarmed man to his death and tried to kill one of his team members.

“I’d like to think that they trust me.” He narrowed his eyes in a futile attempt to reign in his concentration and quell the squabbling in his head over his answer.

“So you’d like to think they trust you, which means that you don’t believe that they do?” Sean folded his arms across this chest, tucking his fingers into his armpits and giving Jack a look that he hadn’t seen since he was a teenager and lying to his grandmother. Grandma always knew if he was lying or keeping secrets, even after he’d joined the Air Force and his job was to keep secrets. She kept him honest with himself, his family, with...

Sighing, he yanked himself back to the present. He wanted his team to follow him because they wanted to, not because they were afraid of what reprisals might befall them if they choose not to. Leading by fear was not the way to go, Jack had seen the consequences of leadership by fear and he hoped that he had learned enough to avoid doing it.

“The led must not be compelled, they must be able to choose their own leader.” He mumbled the old familiar words tumbling to the forefront of his mind. One of his instructors at the Air War College wrote it on the board the first day of class and told them to think about it. Jack had scrawled it down on the inside cover of his notepad, the words sticking with him and randomly ending up scribbled on to scraps of paper, restaurant napkins, even a tray table in the infirmary. It was stuck with him permanently and gave him the basis for forming his own teams.

“Eh?” Sean’s soft voice invaded the silence that was reserved for noisy crickets and other insects.

“Einstein.” Jack squinted, trying to focus on the psychiatrist through the headache--near migraine--from lack of sleep. Grinding aching fingers into the back of his neck Jack gave up on getting his eyes to cooperate and focused on getting the words out. “‘The led must not be compelled, they must be able to choose their own leader.’”

“Your theory on leadership?” Sean offered up the question, tilting his head off to the left his arms crossed in front of him.

Shrugging, Jack stepped awkwardly around the mess on the floor and leaned back against a rickety metal cabinet letting his left leg take most of his weight. Chin resting on his chest, he rolled his eyes upward, allowing him to keep Sean in his sight.

“I know that you’re looking for absolutes; the magic words that will make everything okay again. Despite what Chris may profess, I don’t have any magic words and I don’t know everything, and neither does he for that matter.”

He gave a small smile, bobbing his head in agreement about their mutual friend. Chris often claimed that he had all of the answers in the universe, but you had to consider that this was the same Chris who, when wasted enough, would think some hippy singing about concrete was the next great philosopher.

“What I can tell you is that I think you are worried that you have lost your team’s faith and trust. You are terrified that you will turn back into some dark, near soulless man that you were before the SGC.” Sean paused, taking in an audible gulp of air before he started again, his voice confident and strong but not overbearing. “I can tell you that you are not that person any more. I can tell you that your team does trust you and that they want you as their leader. I can tell you this but it does no good if you don’t believe it.”

Fingers locked together behind his neck, Jack tipped his head back. He blew out a heavy breath and turned his attention to Sean, who was leaning against the ancient workbench as if he owned the place. Jack searched his face, trying to see how much bullshit Sean was attempting to blow up his ass and avoid the truth that flittered around inside him.

“Jack, you have to believe it for yourself, all I can do is help you push the car because you’re lost and have ran out of gas.” Sean glanced at his watch then turned to look out the garage door, Jack turning to look out the door as well. “Look it’s like four thirty in the morning and I’m hungry. Grab your truck keys, food calls.”

 

* * *

 

Jack could feel the tiny pieces of dirt, grass, leaves, and whatever else covered the trail path move irritatingly down his back making it itch. Rubbing his back against a tree, Jack used the rough bark to kill the annoying itch between his shoulder blades and down his spine. He was definitely calling first dibbs on the shower when they got back. As long as Daniel hadn’t taken the same path as he did, he’d only be hot and sweaty. Not hot and sweaty and body packing half of the forest floor with him.

Reaching up, he released the clasp under his chin that kept his helmet on his head. As far as crashes went, this was minor. A scratch on his forearm and a slight winding from landing on his back after flipping over his handle bars. Force equals mass times acceleration, it wasn’t just physics, it’s the law. Exhibit A: one twisted mountain bike, the front forks were bent backwards and the wheel partially folded around one fork.

He probably should have invested in a better bike.  A nice aluminum Trek mountain bike that was made to take a serious pounding. He just couldn’t justify plonking down that much money when he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to ride much longer. He was regretting the decision now as he looked at the crumpled wreck at his feet. His knees had held up a lot better than expected and Jack had continued to bike any chance he got. Most of the time he stuck to streets and paved trails, but it was nice to go off road for a change.

Jack took another drink of water and brought his arm up to investigate the cut on his arm. It wasn’t that bad, not even butterfly bandage worthy. He’d already washed it out with water but there were still bits of soil and rock in it. It was definitely going to suck when he got home. Warm soapy water and peroxide and an open cut was not on the top of the list of enjoyable activities.  In the mean time, two of the large band-aids in from the emergency kit on his bike would work.

Settling down at the foot of the tree, Jack pulled the band-aids from the pouch under the seat and after drying his arm off with his shirt, quickly slapped them in place. Helmet off, he used both hands to scrub through his hair, flicking out the bits of bark and detritus off his scalp. Daniel sure was taking his time on this downhill jaunt back to the truck. Jack figured he’d been waiting for a good five minutes or so after recovering from his sudden encounter with inertia.

Satisfied that he had at least made to the end of the trail before he executed an emergency dismount, Jack took another swig of water and scooted down, so that his head rested comfortably against the trunk. Eyes closed he didn’t move as a fresh gust swept up the trail, cooling the sweat on his scalp, neck and arms. Shutting out the rattling whoosh of passing riders, Jack let his mind wander over recent events.

Not that Chris’s ego needed anymore fodder, but he was right on this occasion, talking to Sean did help. Jack decided to count it as an exception to his opinion that psychiatrists were quacks. Chris didn’t count because Jack knew the smarmy jerk before he had the epiphany that led him to become a shrink.

Rubbing the base of his skull he tired to chase away the last vestiges of the headache from the memory stamp on the ice planet P3R-118. A seven character destination and the mission fallout had started this entire thing. Shit. Just shit. Three consonants and one vowel made up perhaps one of the most versatile words in the English language. Currently it was excelling at its current position of Adjective in describing his current situation. Well, P3R-118 didn’t have everything to do with it. Two more places that started with E were the problem; Euronda and the Enkarran settlement.  

His shitty treatment of his team on Euronda, telling Daniel to shut up and ignoring the initial concerns that Carter and Daniel had about the war Alar’s people were fighting. Jack should of known better, he wasn’t some naive colonel who spent most of his life behind a desk deciding things based on theories that were read in a textbook. He’d been in the ‘shit,’ he really should of known that it was too good to be true. Alar had played his game after all, lying by telling just enough of the truth. In his twisted way Jack got his Justice with Alar. Leading the enemy squadrons into attack, denying Alar asylum on Earth. But he couldn’t shake the look of intent disbelief on Carter’s face when Alar impacted the iris. It was if she was shocked that he’d leapt off the god forsaken pedestal she so wrongly placed him on.

The Enkarran/Gadmeer encounter had been worse. Ordering Carter to turn her generator into a bomb, his willingness to sacrifice a member of his team to try and save the remaining Enkarran settlements. Jack was sure that that mission had sealed the deal. Carter and Daniel had seen the ugly black creature that he could turn into when he needed to. He was sure that that was what caused them to lose their faith and trust in him.

Teal’c was the exception, sparing Jack the disdainful glances that sometimes came form the other two. Jack suspected it was because Teal’c understood and knew that Teal’c would of made the same decisions. It didn’t alleviate Jack’s worries that Teal’c was following him out of some form of misguided loyalty.

Eyes open, Jack looked upward watching the contrails of a plane flying by. Everything was kosher with the team when they first got back from the underground mines. Memories coming back slowly one by one. Janet had warned them that they might remember things intensely, emotions heightened and all that crap, but that didn’t prepare him for being broad-sided by remembering Euronda and the Enkarrans. The sickening churning action his stomach took part in as he recalled what happened. The looks on peoples faces and that fed the never ending self-recrimination.

Cursing, in a variety of languages pulled him back and Jack looked up the trail to see Daniel approaching. The younger man was a mess, tan dirt strafing across black shorts and bits of bark and mulch clinging to the blue moisture wicking t-shirt. Perhaps the afternoon of mountain biking before meeting up with Carter and Teal’c for dinner and a movie, was a bad idea. Neither of them appeared to have much luck on the trail. From his seat he didn’t see any bloody gashes or scrapes and took it for a good sign.

“Et tu?” Jack called startling Daniel as he approached.

Daniel stopped in front of Jack, his eyebrows knitting together as he focused on Jack and the mangled bike. “What?”

“Bike trouble?” He pointed to Daniel’s bike with one hand, shielding his eyes from the sun with the other.

“Yeah, chain came off again and I went sideways. I didn’t even get a scratch but I think the derailleur’s shot.” Ignoring the kickstand, Daniel shoved his bike off the trail letting it land on its side. Taking his helmet off he grabbed his own water bottle and slid down the tree next to Jack. “What the hell happened to you?”  

“Tried to argue with the laws of physics and lost.” Jack saw the annoyed look on Daniel’s face at his evasive answer. “I hit a hole or root or something and the bike stopped, and I didn’t”

Daniel asked tentatively, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine just a scratch.” He held up his arm for inspection. “Whose idea was this anyways?”

“Sam’s.” It came out with a suffering sigh and Jack shifted his eyes to the side, straining to focus on Daniel.

“Carter’s?”

“Yeah, she said we needed ‘male bonding time.’”  

Jack snorted at the ‘quote fingers’ that Daniel made for the last three words. The archeologist frequently complained about people using them and it was always amusing to see him fall into the same trap.

“Ah. I thought after the last time we agreed to not to follow her advice.”

“Last time?” Daniel shifted around so that he now faced Jack.

“Last month, we went camping because she suggested that we should go off and be gross and disgusting males away from her.” He waved his right hand in front of him and rolled his eyes. “It came with a side of rain and wind. Did I mention the rain?”

Jack laughed at the expression on Daniel’s face as they recalled their earlier camping trip and the torrential downpour that invited itself along.

“So why did we follow her suggestion again?” Daniel queried, taking a long swig from his water bottle.

Hands up, pleading innocent Jack announced, “Hey, you asked me to come.”

“I know.” Daniel mirrored Jack’s motions. He sighed, moving his hands to his face he ground the heels of his hands into his eyeballs. “She’s just trying to help Jack, she’s been worried about you. We all have.”

“I’m fine.”

A very undignified snort came from Daniel. “You know no one believes you when you say you’re fine.”

“Well trust me, I am.” Jack’s voice took on the tone he usually reserved for petulant recruits and Jaffa. “I’m even talking about it with someone which should just make your insides tingle with joy.”

“Fat lot of good it’s doing you, you’re as surly as ever. You’re probably lying to him the same way you lie to everyone else. Giving just enough truth to make people believe what you want them to.” Daniel spat back, his face flushed with the anger that was coming out. “You and the Irishman shrink have everything figured out except one thing. You feel guilty.”

“It comes with the Irish genetic makeup.” Jack rolled his eyes, trying to shrug of the words and ignore the problem. “A good grudge or case of guilt can get you another good 20 years or so.”

“Jack, you haul around all this guilt, misplaced responsibility, and repressed memories. You attempt to carry the world but you’re not Atlas. Sooner or later you were going to shrug.”

“Atlas?”

“You know the guy who holds the globe on his back?”

“I know who Atlas is.” Jack snarled folding his arms across his chest.

Daniel let out a sigh, drawing in a noisy lung full of air before speaking. “‘If you saw that he stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the greater his effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders-what would you tell him to do?’”

Jack examined Daniel’s face, trying to gauge where the sagacious younger man was going.  Using Jack’s own knowledge of literature against him by quoting Ayn Rand? Not that he wasn’t thrilled that his team didn’t believe the dumb act, but he loathed to be drawn into academic, philosophical, or scientific discussions which always turned out to be a verbal  pissing contest.

His answer was a simple word, barely audible in the background noise of the forrest. “Shrug”

“Exactly. You shrugged, dislodging everything sending tsunami size waves crashing through all those damn walls of yours.”

Jack blinked, deliberately lowering and raising his eyelids trying to wrap his whirling mind around yet another statement of truth. Daniel was talking again, words coming forth in that understanding tone that made Jack want to hurl. He couldn’t stand it when people talked to him like that, like they understood what he was going through. How could they when he didn’t get things himself?

He listened, hanging on to everything Daniel said instead of letting it pass out the other ear.  Daniel finished, sounding defeated. “Honestly Jack, what do we have to do to convince you that we trust you?”

He snapped his attention directly to Daniel’s face. Jack tried to school his features, toss back up that mask of indifference to hide the fact that Daniel had hit one of the many nails on the head.

“That’s it!” He swore Daniel sounded near jubilant. “You think that we don’t trust you?”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t trust me.” He said, giving no effort for enunciation and clarity. Looking away, Jack focused on the horizon watching as the sun sank low between the trees leaving the two men sitting in that dusky light that existed right before the sun set for the evening.

“Oh for the love of…” Throwing his hands up, Daniel hopped to his feet kicking up a small cloud of dust around his hiking boots. “Would you stop with the self-deprecation already? Seriously, you are a better man than you give yourself credit for. Honest, loyal, trustworthy.”

“Daniel, I almost killed you. I ordered Carter to turn her generator into a bomb. I helped a genocidal bastard fight his war, then executed him by ordering the iris closed, knowing that he would follow. I’ve done worse stuff than this, damned distasteful things without hesitation.” He ground his reply out, keeping his voice low unconsciously mindful of wandering ears. “I am not this good person you think I am.”

“What the hell were you going to do? Offer Alar your spare room?” Daniel retaliated, imitating Jack’s low voice and clenched timbre.

Jack scowled up at the other man, his facial muscles contracting and releasing in their attempt to visually display his feelings. He didn’t have an answer and Daniel knew it. Hopefully, Daniel was picking up the ‘serious injury is eminent’ vibes he was sending that way. Apparently he didn’t as Daniel charged forward again.

“Your world’s been shaken like a fist full of dice in a game of craps. You’ve fallen off the path, your ox carts have over turned. Whatever you want to call it. The last couple of missions have been shit and we’ve seen that side of you that you try to protect us from. You’re worried that it’s scared us all off. It didn’t. We’re still here, Sam, Teal’c and I and we trust you and have faith that you’ll make the right decision in the end. Sam wouldn’t have followed your order otherwise.”

“I really wish I could get this through that thick head of yours. I can tell you all this, but you have to let yourself believe it.” Daniel finished, trailing off at the end as he slid down a tree trunk to sit on the ground again.

Daniel sounded like Sean did the other day, only this time around it sounded better. Not that Sean wasn’t a convincing or sincere guy, he wasn’t the type to talk out of his ass. He wanted to believe that they were both telling the truth, but the scarred part kept nagging him not to. “You sound like Sean.”

“Oh?”

“And Teal’c.” Jack’s usual sarcasm crept back into his voice. “Only he was way more eloquent.”

Daniel smiled, tilting his head back against the tree, the remaining daylight casting a shadow over half of his face. “Should I be insulted?”

“Nah, not this time plant boy.”

Jack smiled too, feeling a little bit more at ease. It was peculiar, not to mention rude, how the oddest, seemingly incongruous things came together to pounce on you, bowling you over and leaving you splayed out in a busy thought processing intersection. Once you got back on your feet, it was exhausting work dodging the on coming and going traffic as you attempted to wrangle everything back where it belonged, swept up the broken glass, and patched up the dents.

“O’Neill! DanielJackson!"

Their heads popped up, eyes meeting momentarily before swiveling their heads to look a past the end of the trail and to the parking area. They spoke at the same time, “Teal’c?”

“It is I.” Teal’c’s voice was louder, accompanied by the crunch of his boots of the loose fill parking lot and bouncing beam of his flashlight.

“What are you doing here?” Daniel got up, trotting the few feet to join Teal’c.

“You are over an hour late returning and did not answer your cell phone. MajorCarter requested that I come and rescue you and O'Neill, DanielJackson. Or retrieve your bodies had you not been alive.”

“Retrieve our bodies?”

Jack laughed out loud at the scandalous quality of Daniel’s voice. Teal’c really was coming into his own when it came to humor.

“Yes, though I am pleased to see that it is not necessary.”

“As am I.” Daniel borrowed one of Teal’c’s phrases as he fought against the underbrush to get his bike upright. His penance for letting it fall so carelessly to the side earlier. Waving and heading toward where they had parked Daniel called over his shoulder, “I’m gonna go put my bike in the truck.”

Jack waved in acknowledgment and narrowed his eyes, trying to focus in on Teal’c’s face and see the grin that he knew had to be there. He laughed a little more, watching Daniel struggle briefly to get his bike upright. “We’re fine Teal’c. A little bike trouble but we live to ride another day.”

Teal’c extended his right arm, offering Jack a hand up. He accepted, reaching forward and clasping Teal’c’s large forearmed with his right hand and pulled himself upright.

“You seem well O’Neill. Have you found what you have been seeking?” Teal’c spoke softly.

“Maybe.”

“You are not sure?”

“I don’t think I could ever be sure. But I have faith that things will be okay in the end.”

“What if they are not?”

The corners of his mouth turned up and Jack recalled an earlier conversation. One that took place on the back end of his truck in the Stuckey’s parking lot and their places were reversed. Jack had been the one asking that question. He replied, echoing Teal’c’s answer and for the finally believing that everything would be okay.

“Then it’s not the end.”

“It is good to have you back O’Neill.” Teal’c placed an arm on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

Bending over, Jack grabbed the crumpled remains of his own bike and started back to the truck. Daniel was there, sitting on the bumper, his bike already tossed in the bed. Jack lifted his over the tailgate, setting it gently on the truck bed. The frame might be wrecked but he could probably salvage the derailleur for Daniel’s bike. Wiping his dirt and grime covered hands off on his shirt and shorts he turned to look at the other two.

“Are you both ready to depart? MajorCarter has prepared dinner and I am most anxious to partake.”

“Wait a minute, Carter cooked?” Jack asked as he walked around to the driver’s side of his vehicle.

“I bet she’s just warming up take out.” Daniel chimed in, opening the passenger door

“You are partially correct DanielJackson.” Jack could see barely see the nod of Teal’c’s head. “She is reheating barbecued ribs from a place known as Fiorella's Jack Stack.”

Daniel commented. “That’s some good food there Teal’c.”

“Indeed. I have heard numerous base personnel speak of it and wished to try some. I am told that Kansas City is the home of barbecue”

“Oh yeah, come on let’s go.” Jack motioned for everyone to get in their respective vehicles. “We don’t want to get there too late and find out it got dried out from being in the oven too long.”

(** Quoted from Ayn Rand’s book Atlas Shrugged)

 

* * *

 

Getting out of his car, General Hammond stretched his arms above his head and yawned. It had been a long night waiting to hear back from two SG teams that were trapped offworld by a wicked storm, and another team that was negotiating a treaty for trinnium. Preparations had to be made incase the first two teams needed assistance, and the planet where SG-9 was finishing up the treaty was opposite of Earth in terms of day and night. He was tired, in need of a good meal, a shower, and a nap before his granddaughters arrived in the afternoon. He had to do this first, it was the least he could do.

As he walked around the side of the house he felt out of place in his uniform. The destruction that laid in piles on the ground, ladders that led to the roof, and stacks of supplies at the ready made for an interesting and slightly treacherous journey to the wood privacy fence gate that opened into the backyard. It made him proud to see his people here working, the SGC really did take care of their own. George wasn’t sure who started it, but he suspected it was Jack or Lou Ferretti, a carry over from their days in Special Ops where you took care of your own and those left behind.

Opening the back gate he spied the picnic table in the far corner, well away from the house and the calls of wild men and women reining destruction. He could see Captain Dave Coleman seated at one end, his metal crutches propped up against a fence post and his injured leg straightened with his foot resting on the bench across from him. Captain Coleman had been shot by a staff weapon two weeks ago, the blast hit him on the thigh. He’d nearly died from shock by the time he and SG7 were able to fight their way back. But here he was, looking well, watching a group of insane people rip off the shingles from the east side of his house.

The insane people were SGs 1 & 2 and a couple of stray volunteers that he didn’t recognize. The only person missing was Siler and his box of oversized tools. Someone heard that Captain Coleman was in the middle of putting a new roof on his house when he had been recalled for that mission to fetch SG-2 who always seemed to run into the cannibalistic natives. So here they were, finishing a job that Captain Coleman wouldn’t be able to do for a long time, without even being asked.  It made him proud to have people like this under his command and know that things such as this were going on.

“General Hammond sir!” Captain Coleman reached for his crutches, instinct telling him he should stand and salute.

“At ease son,” He waved for the young man to stay seated. “This isn’t an official visit, I just wanted to drop by and see how you were, and how this little home improvement project was going.”

“Oh.” he sounded a little surprised, but recovered quickly, “I’m doing good sir. Doctor Frasier said it would be a while longer before I can get rid of the crutches or start PT. But considering the alternative, I think I can wait.”

“That’s good to hear.” George smiled, raising a hand to block out the sun allowing him a better view of the east side of the house. He watched the men work, scurrying around ripping up the last bits of shingles, as another group started laying the tar paper down on the opposite side as Teal’c started bring up bundles of shingles. The ladder clanged loudly as he lumbered up, two bundles over his right shoulder he made it look easy. To his unprofessional eye, George figured they’d be able to finish the job today.

George grinned as he recognized the sound of a mother trying a rein in boisterous children. He knew that the young captain and his wife had 3 kids, two girls and one boy. He shifted his attention lower to the small deck and sliding glass doors. The door slid open and a small, compact body shot out the door only to be stopped by an arm that shot out, grabbing the back of her green overalls before she was three steps from the door. The little girl screamed in protest but Captain Coleman’s wife simply deposited her back in the house.

Captain Coleman heaved himself upright, quickly adjusting his crutches and nodded toward the house, “If you’ll excuse me sir, I should probably go give my wife a hand. Sandy and Tracy either get along great, or they don’t.”

“Not to worry, go on ahead. I’m just going to talk to Colonel O’Neill for a moment then I’ll be on my way.”

“Thank you for stopping by sir.” He offered his hand and George took it, giving a firm shake.

“Take care of yourself Captain. We’ll leave the light on for you.”

Captain Coleman smile and nodded and made his way slowly across the small yard and into the house. George saw the man he was looking for make his way down the west side of the roof heading for the ladders. He took a turned back toward the gate and to where the ladders reached the ground.

“General Hammond! I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

He took a step back, surprised by the gate suddenly opening and Doctor Janet Frasier appearing.

“It wasn’t exactly planned, but I wanted to stop by on my way home and make sure Colonels O’Neill and Ferretti weren’t doing too much damage.”

“To them or the house?” She asked a smile playing over her face with an evil glint lighting up her eyes. Doctor Frasier had a wicked sense of humor, and he appreciated her candor. She was excellent at her job, and was probably the most feared, and trusted person in the entire command. He never once had a regret about bringing her in, not even when she had threatened to pull medical rank on him.

“Both.” George took the box from her and headed to the picnic table.

“Well, sir I wouldn’t be able to tell you much I only just got here.” Doctor Frasier dropped the two plastic bags and the small back pack she had been carrying on the table. “I swear General, on missions they do excellent when it comes to first aid and wound care. They go off and play on Earth and they forget everything.” shaking her head she continued “I find it easier to just show up wherever they are helping out. Every time I don’t I get a phone call.”

“They are like teenagers. They never listen, stay out all night and violate curfew…”He made the rolling hand gesture signally the list didn’t end.

“Only worse, you can’t put the fear of god into them to gain cooperation.”

“Very true, they don’t intimidate easily.” George sighed, the small grin on his face fading away. He took a seat at the picnic table, his back to the fence allowing him a full view of the yard and house. “I need to ask you a couple of questions Doctor.”

“What can I do for you sir?” The doctor sat down next to him, the levity gone from her voice and was replaced with solemn one.

“How are they, really?” He motioned with his head to where SG-1 had gathered on the roof. “We thought they were coping well with everything that had been thrown at them lately. Then I get a call in the middle of the night, informing me that Colonel O’Neill collapsed from exhaustion while on a mission.”

“They, all of SG-1 are really good at making us see what they want us to. They’ve had Colonel O’Neill as a role model for the last four years.”

‘As if he’s needed to teach them any more bad habits’ George thought as he listened to the junior officer.

“As much as it pains me to say, there wasn’t a lot that we could have done. Sure we could have pressured Colonel O’Neill to talk, or even ordered him to do so, but we both know how that would of turned out.”

“Badly.” He nodded in agreement.

“Yes, sir. Looking back I can make an entire list of things that I wish I would have done differently. I have to remind myself that hindsight’s a pms’ing bitch and to just say no to time travel.” She shifted, turning slightly sideways so that she was facing him. “I know it’s been a worrying couple of weeks, but I can tell you they are going to be okay.”

He looked her in the eye, needing to see that his team was going to be fine. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. Doctor Jeppeson signed off on Major Carter and Doctor Jackson last week.  Doctor Fitzpatrick sent me his report yesterday and recommends the Colonel be placed back on active duty. Just look at them General,” He followed her waving hand back to the roof. “They’re relaxed, happy, and having fun despite the fact that it’s blood boiling hot out here.”

She was right, they did seem to be enjoying themselves. O’Neill and Ferretti were standing on the peek next to the chimney kindly giving out orders as to where to place bundles of shingles and rolls of tar paper. The ladders clanged loudly as Teal’c and members of SG-2 climbed up an down with supplies. Someone called for lunch and George watched as they all dropped what they were doing and descended the ladders.

His saw Ferretti lose his footing and fall, sliding a few feet before he stopped. The officer quickly got back to his feet with the help of O’Neill and they waited their turn to get off the roof. George could hear Doctor Frasier tsking next to him and figured that her stomach had clenched just as tightly as his own.

Hands cupped around her mouth in a makeshift megaphone, the small Doctor stood up and yelled. “Colonel! I swear to God if you fall off the roof I’m not saving you!”

“We’ll be fine.” Ferretti answered with a loud laugh apparently unfazed by his near mishap.

“Sure you will, heap big man knows all!”

George couldn’t help it, he laughed, hard, feeling the built up anxiety release and leave him slightly relaxed. Shaking his head he rose to his feet and turned toward Doctor Frasier, “Well, I think it’s safe to assume that you have everything under control here doctor. I think I’ll be on my way.”

“Alright sir, it was good of you to stop by.” She followed his lead, rising from her seat at the table and following him across the yard. “Take the day off sir, relax, enjoy the weather, spoil your grandchildren.”

“That’s what I plan to do.” He smiled, nodding farewell and went to catch Colonel O’Neill before the other man disappeared.

 

* * *

 

Oh, boy was he going to be sore in the morning. Really sore. Jack really should have known that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. Disastrous bike riding with Daniel yesterday, followed up with dinner and beer and Wild Turkey at Carter’s house, and roofing a house today. He could already feel the muscles in his back tightening and the impending doom of a headache. The only reason he didn’t feel like total crap this morning was because he was probably stilled buzzed from the night before.

Despite the fact that he’d be feeling like total crap tomorrow, the last two days were worth it. Chris had always said that sometimes all you needed was a good drink, claiming it was the male version having a good cry. It worked. With the exception of Teal’c they had gotten good and buzzed and commenced with the yelling, blaming, arguing, apologizing, general clearing the air type exercises that ended with trading embarrassing stories and recalling long past glorious missions. Everything was fine, until Teal’c had pointed out that they had agreed to help Ferretti and SG-2 roof a house for an injured member of the SGC.

Jack sniggered as he remembered their early morning coffee inhalement festival at the IHOP. Teal’c tucking into a large stack of pancakes while, he, Daniel,

and Carter had stuck their faces in their cups, going through several carafes of coffee before they even touched their food. Sometime between scarfing down pork ribs and climbing ladders on to Captain Coleman’s roof they had become a team again. Jack didn’t even remember what exactly they had said last night, the exact words lost to him he only remembered the ending that killed off the fear that had ate him up. His team, his friends trusted him.

He shifted, adjusting the wadded up shirt under his head and pulling his shoulders up and off the deck freeing them from the dried sweat that tried to glue him to the floor. The extra deep soaking tub was calling him, attempting to lure him inside and away from the gorgeous view of the night sky. Yes, it was true, macho Jack O’Neill liked long hot baths. Nothing else quite took away the ache in his knees and dodgy back like a long soak in hot water. It was the first improvement he had made when he purchased this house.

No matter how great that tub was, it didn’t hold anything to the site he was currently looking at. There were a few long thin wisps of clouds that looked like rips in the sky. The moon was out, but not overly bright and a cool breeze was passing across the yard. It was perfect. He let his eyes close and released the tension in his muscles.

“You know, you really should try locking your front door. Any ole person could just waltz right in and do God knows what.”

Well, it was perfect. He opened them again to see Chris leaning directly over him two beer bottles dangling from his fingers and were dripping condensation on to Jack’s face. “Well hopefully they’d do it quieter than you. They’d probably wipe their feet on the mat as well. What the hell did you step in?”

“What are you doing sniffing my feet?”

“Hello! They’re right next to my head.”

“Then don’t put your head there. Honestly, how the hell you made it to Colonel we’ll never know.”

Jack growled, exasperated with his friend in only a few short moments. Bringing his knees up to his chest, he pulled himself upright, scooting up to sit at the top of the steps to yard when he was done. All those crunches really did pay off. Fingers entwined he twisted his hands around so that his palms faced away from him and stretched feeling the satisfying pull of tissue and joints falling back into their proper places.

“Want one?” Chris held one of the bottles out to him as he moved to sit down next to Jack.

“Sure.” Jack accepted the beer and bottle opener. Chris may love crummy gasoline tasting convenience store coffee, but he never skimped on the beer. “What brings you by this fine evening?”

“Just checking in, thought you could use a beer. Janet said you guys got the Coleman house roofed today.”

“Yeah we did. It went a lot smoother than expected.” Jack took another sip of his beer, secretly amused by the sound the glass bottle made as he moved it away from his mouth.

“Mmm, that’s good I guess.” Chris answered and Jack could see the nodding of his head. Neither of them said anything for a while, sitting on the steps from the deck to the yard, drinking beer and pretending everything was normal, which it wasn’t.

Chris finally spoke up, giving Jack something else to listen to aside from annoying toad that seemed to take up residence near his house. “I know that Sean cleared you for active duty. But how are things really?”

“They’re not great, but they are okay.” That was the truth too. He had worked things out in regards to his team, now it was just a few remaining personal matters that needed to be squared away.

“You didn’t blow smoke up his ass did you?”

Jack gave a small chuckle. “No, not this time.”

“Good.” Chris tossed his right arm across Jack’s shoulders, giving him a first squeeze and a pound on the back. “We were all really worried about you. You’ve been ‘off’ ever since you and Teal’c were pulled out of that death glider.”

“Faced with imminent death kind of messes with you. I had too much time to think.”

“About?”

With few exceptions Chris was always able to get him to talk and he hated him for that. At least they were able to skip the yelling and wrestling match that had preceded several other ‘talking episodes.’ “Euronda. The Enkarrans. Ice planets and memory stamps. Loosing my team. Freezing to death. Then P9G-385.”

“What about P9G-385?”

“Icing on the proverbial cake. Nice natives who are really perverts and like to poke at naked people with muddy canes. Resurrected some old not so good memories. Soiled some good ones.” Perfectly good ones of his grandmother and her hard nose approach to keeping one wily young Jack O’Neill in line.

“Granny O’Neill?”

“Yeah.” Jack smirked at the memory of Chris’s first encounter with his grandmother. She had been visiting for Charlie’s birthday and when Chris walked in the front door she had hollered at him to hurry up, shut the door, wipe his feet and get in the kitchen and help peel the potatoes.

“She was a pistol. Scared the shit out of me at the age of 93.”

Jack sighed again, holding his beer between his knees he scrubbed calloused fingers through his hair. He missed her. “She always said, that no matter what happened that she would always have enough faith for both of us.”

“You think you’ve failed her.” A mere whisper from Chris sent a shudder down Jack’s back.

Jack didn’t say anything, letting the horny toad answer for him. Turning his head in Chris’s direction he was thankful that he still hadn’t replaced the floodlight above the patio door. He didn’t think he could do this if it wasn’t dark, and if he was completely sober.

“We all lose our way from time to time. Sometimes it’s as simple as turning right at Albuquerque when you should of turned left. Other times it’s a case of ignoring the sign that says ‘please stay on the trail at all times for your own safety.’ The important part is that you have people to reel you in before you get to lost and become bait for the bear. In the end, it’s always worth it, you find things out that you didn’t know and you grow a little bit.”

Oiy. Chris sounded like he had been hanging out with Oma--if you know that candle light is fire--Desala. It made sense though, Chris was a thinker, into all that old, and new, age philosophy that played right into his life as a psychiatrist.

“When did you become so smart?” Jack asked casually.

“Any child of twelve could do it with fifteen years practice.”

They both chuckled and fell silent. At some point Chris had left briefly and returned with two more beers. The air was filled with the usual suburban night sounds, a car passing by here and there, slams of car doors as people arrived home. Ms. Wotmore taking her noisy yip-yip dog Snuggles out for his nightly visit to the bushes, and the faint sound of a siren could be heard between the croaking of the damn toad that was squatting on his property. Sometimes, silent company was the best.

“Want another beer?” Chris set his empty bottle on the railing next to his first one.

“Nah.” His tub was calling him again and this time he wasn’t going to resist. The night had cooled down considerably from the ninety-two degrees it had been during the day and with the wind blowing it was starting to become a tad chilly. 

“Good because I’m out.” Which also meant that he didn’t want another one either. They’d known each other long enough to understand how this game was played.

“Don’t look at me I hid the good stuff.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want just anyone walking in and drinking my Glenfiddich.” Hands on his knees, Jack levered himself up, taking a moment to stretch stiff joints before retreating toward the house. “Anyways, I have a hot date calling my name and I’d really prefer to not wake up and be facing a shrinkage problem because I fell asleep.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if you have an unhealthy obsession with that tub of yours.” Chris had followed him in, beer bottles clinking in his hands as he followed Jack through the lounge to the front hall before detouring through the dining room to the kitchen.

Jack flipped on the hall light and turned to face Chris who was exiting the kitchen. “You’re just jealous.”

“You wish.”  Chris flipped him off and rolled his eyes. He walked back toward the front opening it part way before calling back down the hallway. “Still up for Beckett’s on Tuesday?”

“Yup. Haven’t seen Steve in a while so looking forward to it.” Jack headed away from Chris and toward the back of the house waving an arm back over his shoulder without breaking stride.

“Good. I’ll see you on Tuesday.” Chris shut the door before Jack could say anything else.

Walking into the bathroom, he heard Chris’s rickety truck start up and pull out of his driveway. Bending over he stuck the stopper in the drain and set the faucets to the right temp before returning to his room and setting the alarm for noon the next day. He deserved a lie in. Back in the bathroom he toed off his shoes, not bothering to police them or the rest of his clothing, leaving them where they fell. He didn’t wait for the tub to fill before climbing in, finally void of the desperate need to scrub off invisible dirt and blood.

All that was left was hoping he didn’t fall asleep in the tub.


End file.
